


The Nature of Beasts

by Capa_Detated



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BAMF Dorian Pavus, Baby Rutherford has Issues, Bring on all of the issues, Brotherhood, Brothers, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Cullen Has Issues, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Dorian is a Good Friend, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Family Drama, Friendship, Gen, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Lyrium Addiction, M/M, Sibling Rivalry, Slow Romance, They need to hug it out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 12:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12631407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capa_Detated/pseuds/Capa_Detated
Summary: Envy is powerful. It can twist a mind and reshape a man, harden a heart and turn love into hate.After years of living in the oppressive shadow of his brother, Caelum Rutherford was content to sever ties and walk his own path, but when the breach forces him into an unwelcome family reunion, he and Cullen will have to rediscover the love and rebuild the bond or let the rift grow larger between them until they're both consumed.





	1. The Death

A calamitous explosion ripped a hole in the sky. Dark creatures of the Fade are descending on Thedas in unrelenting hordes. The blessed Temple of Sacred Ashes is nothing more than corpses and embers. Most Holy is dead.

They say the Maker has abandoned them. He has finally turned away from the world and left them all to be ravaged by demons and darkspawn and dragged to the Void. They’re facing the end days.

Staring into the fire, absently sharpening his blade in smooth, soothing motions, Caelum knows it isn’t so. The Maker tests them as he has time and time before. Every trial they are made to face has a purpose and the Maker never fails to grant them the means to endure, survive, and overcome.

But people are timorous and fickle. They are weak of mind and spirit; herds of sheep that live their lives in a sphere of peace and routine where each day begins and ends as the one before it. They recoil and quiver at even the slightest disturbance. Left to their own devices during times of adversity, they inflame each other’s hysteria and exacerbate the chaos. This is why they need guardians: the ever vigilant sheepdogs that keep order. Watching. Protecting. Controlling.

Shielding the people, corralling the mages, protecting them from themselves, and acting for the good of the whole is what keeps the masses safe, methodical spheres placid and intact.

Caelum watched their panic erupt when the first waves of demons started pouring through. He watched them heedlessly run in circles, shouting over one another, completely incapable of keeping themselves alive. He could almost hear the collective sigh of relief when the Templars came. They threw themselves at their armored salvation, clinging and pulling at them hysterically, pleading for their protection. They are so afraid of death, yet without firm direction, they mindlessly cower right in its path.

He has always taken his duties seriously. He is a guardian among these sheep. It is an arduous task but one he gives himself to with unyielding conviction and reverence. He looks over the camp around him at the untrained recruits and volunteers and the dependant civilians and knows that he will need to give more of himself than ever before. Not only as a Templar, but also as a man.

The solid thud of heavy boots approaching from behind followed by a quiet, “Captain,” pulls him from his thoughts. He turns, standing and sheathing his blade in one fluid motion to face the young recruit that stands before him. Caelum watches silently as the recruit struggles to meet his eyes, noting how he holds the hilt of the sword at his hip in a white knuckle grip, hands shaking slightly and body locked tight, ready to snap at any moment.

He bites back a sign.  _ The people may be right. We may truly be doomed if  _ **_this_ ** _ is what we have to work with. _

“At ease, recruit. You’re all coiled up. Too tense. If demons were to run this camp right now you’d only hurt yourself and get in the way,” he barks out harshly.

He is forced to hold back another sigh when a deep blush spreads up the boy’s neck and his eyes widen as he visibly takes a deep, shuddering breath. The hand at his sword clenching and unclenching in uncertainty, unsure of how to demonstrate the proper grip that the disapproving captain is looking for.

“Uh… oh. Right. My apologies, Captain. I’ll be sure to work on it, ser,” he stammers out, eyes dropping to the dirt at his feet, his shoulders lowering by a fraction. Practically wilting in the face of Caelum’s stabbing criticism.

“You required my attention.”

“Oh, yes. Well… ah… you see…” Caelum prays to the Maker for patience as the boy stumbles over his own tongue for several moments before eventually clearing his throat and starting again.

“It’s the refugees, ser. They’re ornery and fighting amongst each other. The other Templars usually get it sorted, but there’s one man that ain’t willing to hear nothing they say. It usually takes someone in charge to stamp the heat out of those more crotchety ones and since you’re the only captain here…”

Caelum allows the heavy sigh to escape him this time, letting it out deeply as he takes a second to muster up the energy to deal with yet another inevitable headache.

“Yes, I understand. I will handle it. Just point me to him.”

“That way, ser. The last two tents on the left end. Just follow the hollerin’, you won’t miss it.”

He gives a sharp nod, “As you were,” then suddenly feels a twinge of pity as he watches the boy nearly snap his neck in his haste to stiffly nod back in the same manner.

He studies the fresh face, not even a shadow of a beard growing despite days at camp with only essential supplies. Large expressive eyes and a splatter of freckles. Baby fat still lingering on his cheeks and long gangly limbs that his body has yet to fully grow into. He is still a boy, only just becoming a young man, but here he is, fighting and protecting his neighbors from the demons that drove them from their homes.

_ What good has it done to be harsh with him? He’s doing what felt right. No different than you when you were his age. What kind of man are you to stand by and wait for him to fail?  _ Regretting his frayed temper, he quickly steps forward to address the boy again.

“What’s your name, recruit?”

“Uh, Baris. Ser.”

“Baris. Come see me after you finish your final patrol this evening. I’ll teach you the proper way to handle that weapon.”

Relief radiating from the boy, his eyes shone for the first time in days as his lips spread into a tentative smile, “Of course, Captain! I’ll meet with you straight away. Thank you, ser,” he prattles before nodding deeply and turning to resume his routines with a noticeable lightness in his stride.

Caelum feels a small spark of warmth spread through his chest. Pessimism comes so easily to him, he sometimes needs those short moments to remind him that the Templar Order isn’t only about containing mages. They are there to protect people, to give them security and stability. In times like these, he needs to give them hope. He has never been a people person though. He never had the effortless charm or the natural calming nature that his siblings possess. Thinking about the timid smile and bright eyes on Baris, he vows to at least give it his best try.

 

✦

 

“It ain’t right that  **they** get extra blankets. We’re cold too! They get extra blankets just ‘cause they got a kid? To the Void with that rubbish!”

Caelum finds his newly acquired upbeat attitude already collapsing as this abrasive, greasy, druffalo-built man bombards him with complaints.  _ I should have told Baris to piss off and find someone else to deal with this nonsense. _

It takes every scrap of his self-control to keep him standing there with a straight face as this insolent man shouts about his petty grievances.  _ I should take everything back and toss him out to sleep with the damn wolves. That’ll fix his priorities right up.  _ His sardonic thoughts always manage to drip through no matter how tightly he tries to rein in his temper.

“I tell ya, the way people coddle their brats these days makes me sick. He’s half the size of a bloody nug and he needs his own blanket,” the man spat, shaking his head in disbelief and scowling intensely at the family a few tents away where a small child with a thick wool blanket draped snugly around his shoulders stood peering at them from behind his mother’s legs.

Caelum feels his eye twitch in irritation.  _ I’ll bloody  _ **_your_ ** _ nug in a minute.  _ “I understand your concerns,” he speaks as calmly and placidly as he can, slightly raising his palms in what he hopes is a calming gesture, making sure to keep his body relaxed and tone neutral.

“We’re all cold and hungry and uncomfortable. Probably a little tired of each other too. I understand. But please, don’t make a difficult situation even worse. The chill is biting in these mountains and the children need the extra protection. You and the other adults aren’t as vulnerable.”

There is a beat of tense silence as they lock in a stare down. Seeing the defiance in the man’s eyes, the willingness to keep pushing, Caelum lets his eyes harden. He slides his mouth into a hard line and subtly squares his shoulders; the warning is clear.

The man looks away, growling lowly but remaining blessedly quiet, apparently deciding that it won’t be wise to test the captain’s patience.

That was fine by Caelum. Seeing the matter ended, he gives a quick nod to the family that had been quietly watching the exchange with bated breath, not daring to interrupt or defend themselves. He offers a small smile to the boy that stood clutching his mother’s leg fearfully and the woman protectively keeping him behind her.

She meets his eyes, mouthing a silent  _ thank you,  _ before combing her hand comfortingly through the boys hair and ushering him back into the tent.

Feeling an unexpected burst of satisfaction, Caelum makes his way through the rest of camp, checking in with each of the occupants, talking, mingling, listening, putting their minds at ease. He revels in his newfound position. Every tired smile from weary mothers; every respectful nod from strained fathers; every appreciative pat on the arm from worldly elders; the eager acceptance from young recruits to join his training session with Baris; the deference from his fellow Templars. It all sinks deep into his soul and ignites a part of himself that he long gave up on.

_ I can do this,  _ he praises himself lightly as he makes his way back to his spot by the fire.  _ I can be what they need.  _ Throwing himself down heavily, thrilled to be off his feet, he leans comfortably into the fire letting it warm his face. But it is his sister’s voice in his head that warms him more than any fire could. Mia, ever the mother hen fussing over her sibling, was always screeching about them sitting too close to the pit.  _ One sneeze and you’ll end up with your eyebrows burned right off!  _ He and Cullen would share a conspiratorial glance before leaning in simultaneously and driving Mia mad. They would both earn a heavy thump on the head for it, but there was no pain, only love, laughter, and contentment. He smiles to himself fondy, welcoming the nostalgia.

_ She would be so proud of me today.  _ His smile slips from his face and he stares longingly into the fire.  _ They all would. _

 

_ ✦✦✦ _

 

Honnleath was a charming place for a rambunctious group of five siblings to grow up. They would run through the village greeting friendly faces every morning, snagging treats and asking to rub their horses and play with their dogs. There were frequent trips to the modest stream that was just deep enough for splashing and playing, where their father taught them to fish and together they spent an entire day catching and releasing the little fish that followed the flow of the water. 

Sparse forest hosted boisterous rounds of hide-and-seek, and trees that grew thickly with strong, sprawling branches were perfect for climbing. He would rest high at the top where the limbs tangle together and look out over the village, watching the smoke billow out of chimneys, neighbors in the fields tending to horses and druffalo, frail nugs drinking cautiously from the stream, birds adjacent to him hopping branch to branch. He’d feel invincible.

He remembers endless summer afternoons spent racing his brothers up and down the tallest trees. He always had a fervent competitive streak and playing with his brothers would ignite it like nothing else.

Branson, only a year his senior, didn’t have the same drive to compete. He was docile by nature and preferred to watch and support. It usually took the combined efforts of Caelum and Cullen to cajole Branson into running amok in the wilderness with them, but his heart wouldn’t let him compete. He was always content with letting his brothers take the victories and watching for the smiles on their faces.

Cullen was the opposite in a lot of ways. The eldest Rutherford boy, he was four years older than Caelum and never allowed the age gap to be an excuse to go easy on him. Racing across the cobblestone path through the village, rowdy wrestling bouts in the fields, scaling the towering trees in the forest, Caelum always came second. He’d push himself until his lungs screamed for respite when he would finally reach the edge of the village. The skin on his knees and elbows would be raw from digging harshly into the dry grass of the fields. His fingers cracked and bled from clawing at rugged bark. Still he would lose. It was a spark of annoyance that grew into burning vexation the longer it continued, fueled even more so by Cullen’s affable smile and complacent shrug in the face of his victories.

The youngest of them, little Rosalie would beg incessantly to join her brothers on their reckless escapades. She was barely old enough to walk before she was toddling after them, tugging on their coats and insisting that they bring her along. Branson always indulged her, taking her hand and carefully guiding her along with them to learn to climb trees and chase nugs. They would all receive a scolding from their mother when she would inevitably return home with ripped clothes and tangled hair.

As the eldest, Mia acted as a second mother to them. Running the farm was a laborious task. Tending to the animals, collecting eggs, shearing sheep, milking goats, planting and pulling crops; even with the children shouldering their share of morning chores, the work kept their mother and father occupied until the setting sun signaled dinner time. Mia carried the responsibility of nannying her siblings. The degree of gratitude that Caelum held for Mia was immeasurable. When he would be defeated once again in their petty games and the failure would linger inside of him like a taint, Mia was always there to pull him to her chest, fighting his feigned protests, and run her fingers through his hair, loosening his curls and earnestly telling him that he was good enough. Caelum dreamed of the day that he’d be able to believe her.

He found solace in the hills of Honnleath. The undulant mounds encircled the village serenely; rising, dipping, and swaying. He would trek up the steepest hill and lay out on his back, grounded by the strength of the earth beneath him, letting the thick, soft grass tickle his neck, staring up at the sky, feeling so close to the clouds. He’d witness the hills infallibly support an endless torrent of life and energy, the way Mia supported that same spirited energy that his siblings had in abundance, and be smitten by the harmony of it all.

During spring the hills would transform into rolling fields of vibrant bluebells, orchids, and daffodils. Everything the sun’s rays touched glistened wetly from the spring showers. The orchestra of birds, recently returned home, filled the air. Bees and butterflies bounced through the breeze, greedily taking in the spoils of the fresh flowers. Rams would crowd the hill, grazing on the banquet laid out by spring while their young offspring clumsily pranced up and down the valleys on shaky legs. Reflecting on the memories of him and his siblings dashing through Honnleath vivaciously looking for new adventures, Caelum would sit quietly on the hills, enjoying all of the life that spring birthed.

Autumn always slammed into Honnleath and the hills would be abruptly thrashed by a riot of colors. Golden leaves twisted through the air, dancing and twirling with the gentle wind before meeting the ground. He loved walking through the hills in autumn, hearing the crunch of leaves under each step, watching throngs of birds migrating to faraway places and small woodland animals scuttering around foraging, preparing for winter. The fallen leaves would gather in the gorge, creating a river of scarlet, gold, and violet. His siblings would usually join him during autumn to roll down into the dense piles, their laughter echoing loudly through the decorated hills.

He would burst out the door on the mornings of fresh snowfall in winter to where the hills slumbered under a glittering white blanket. He found a small satisfaction in being the first to leave a mark on the pure landscape. Making his way gracelessly to the crest of the tallest hill, slipping and sliding the whole way, he would sprawl out on his back and watch the snow float listlessly from the sea of dark, low hanging clouds above him. He would fall asleep out there with the snow gently cascading around him and awake to see the white hills unblemished once again, his tracks thoroughly erased by the fresh coat, and he would be at peace. It wasn’t the isolation that he sought. Rather, it was the silence of winter. Everything muffled and quiet. No dazzling colors or sprightly commotion. No losing. No failing. Only resting. A respite alone with the hills, it was the purest calm he could find. He savored it.

 

✦

 

As a child, Caelum didn’t quite understand Cullen’s obsession with the Templars. He had only just reached his fourth year when Cullen, already eight, began watching the village Templars with ardent fascination. Cullen seized any moment that the Templars would spare, swinging wooden swords around and bashing hay-filled enemies with makeshift shields, while Caelum sulked on the sidelines and huffed about being left out. 

“These are not games, Cal. These are essential Templar fighting techniques,” Cullen declared solemnly, “it’s too hard for you.”

So Caelum watched, zealously snatching every crumb of knowledge that he could reach and archiving it deeply into his mind.

He observed the way the Templars would adjust Cullen’s stance:  _ Stance determines speed, control, and stamina. Feet wide, in line with shoulders, knees bent slightly. Leading foot forward. Relaxed, light, springy. _

He listened to them explain control:  _ Fingers loose around the hilt, wrist relaxed. Don’t wave the arm. Short measured movements from elbow and shoulder. Move the blades center of gravity, not the entire blade. _

He studied them as they demonstrated guarding, attacking, and defending:  _ Keep elbows close, sword out, tip up. Guard the torso. Horizontal cut, vertical cut, thrust. Find the pattern. Know when to block, when to sweep, when to counter, when to withdraw. _

He became increasingly entranced by their skill. They moved with such ease and confidence, every motion flowing seamlessly into the next. They spoke with unquestionable authority and held themselves with palpable assertiveness. Caelum was in awe. He endeavored to be just like them.

Sneaking away to find seclusion in the forest with a swiped practice sword, he would work through everything that he took away from Cullen’s training. Swinging aggressively at tree trunks and bushes, blocking attacks from invisible foes and twisting away from imagined magic, he practiced all of the forms the Templars used. Hearing their biting comments in his mind reprimanding every stumble and mistake, he pushed himself beyond his limits, until he was sick from exhaustion, and those scornful voices in his head fell silent.

When Mia enlisted all of them to support Cullen’s ambitions and help him train, Caelum privately relished in the opportunity to test his skills. He enthusiastically matched Cullen’s footwork and worked hard to strike and deflect Cullen’s hits properly. Although Cullen’s size, strength, and hands-on training was ultimately more than Caelum could compete with, he felt pride in himself. He didn’t feel the familiar sting of failure as Cullen stood over him with a hand held out to pull him up from the grass.

It continued that way for years until Rosalie followed him into the woods one day. He was running through the usual sets, incorporating Cullen’s latest lessons into his routines, not noticing Rosie until she bounded up to him yapping breathlessly about wanting to whack the tree too. A knot twisted in his stomach at the sight of her. He knew he would never be able to sneak the training sword back to the Templar supplies and get home unnoticed with his exuberant little sister with him, so he steeled his resolve and escorted her back home, the wooden sword held openly in his grip.

Upon seeing them, Cullen pulled the sword from his hand, shaking his head disapprovingly and leveling him with a dour stare.

Caelum tried to defend himself. He explained how he paid attention to all of the techniques and tips that the Templars revealed, how he had been learning to train himself, working furiously to keep up with Cullen’s training, pointing out how adeptly he handled himself when they would all help him practice.

Cullen dismissed all of it with a sigh. Caelum held back a cry of frustration as Cullen condescendingly lectured him, “You can’t take these things and play with them like they’re toys. This stuff isn’t meant for you and if you keep messing around with it you’re going to end up getting hurt. I know you see me with the Templars and it looks like fun, but it’s not. It isn’t the game that you think it is. It’s hard work and commitment and will likely end up saving someone's life one day. I know it’s hard for you to understand but…”

Caelum let the words wash over him, feeling insignificant and inferior.  _ This isn’t meant for you.  _ It wasn’t meant for him, that life. That life of being powerful, valiant, and worthy wasn’t meant for him. It was meant for someone like Cullen. He was the baby brother who was expected to stay quiet and live out a quiet life in this quiet little village.

He refused to let the lack of faith thwart him though. Caelum absently nodded at him, letting Cullen belittle his progress without protest, and let it fuel his efforts even more. His confidence in himself had grown during those years. He knew what he was capable of and he assured himself that one day the rest of them would know it too.

He vigorously continued his private training, going as far as he could on his own until eventually, a few short months before Cullen left home behind for official Templar training, Caelum pointedly pushed past Cullen and approached the Templars, demanding that they teach him as well. Looking the Knight-Lieutenant straight in the eye, he made his case as confidently as a precocious nine year old could manage. He was older than Cullen when he began training. He, along, with his siblings, had been faithfully helping Cullen practice since he began. He had been passionately undergoing his own training for four long years. He knew of the time, effort and sacrifice it required. He could be just as good as Cullen. He could be better than Cullen.

They laughed at him. Cackling boorishly and smacking him on the back, mocking him, “Oi, ya want to be like big brother. Yeah? Ain’t that a precious thing.”

He felt his face heat up. His morale fractured painfully, each laugh a razor-sharp dagger through his chest. He wanted to fight, to make them see in him what they saw in Cullen. But he was staggered by their crushing derision. Unable to speak, unable to move, he stood there trembling with shame and fury, eyes brimming with angry, unshed tears.

The humiliation twisted into blistering resentment when Cullen came forward with that damned smile on his face and ruffled his hair, chuckling lightly and shooing him away. “Alright, alright. Enough of that. I’ve told you already, Cal. This is serious. It’s not meant for you. I’m sure Branson and Rosie found something fun. Why don’t you join them?” He was sent away without a second thought.

Laughable. The thought of him being more than just  _ Cullen’s little brother,  _ was laughable. Rage bubbled within him, it thrummed and burst and spilled into his heart. That patch of darkness that housed years of anger, failure, bitterness, and discontent grew into a solid mass of contempt.

Caelum stopped going to Cullen’s lessons, stopped participating in his practices with their brothers and sisters, had long since stopped asking for their old games of climbing trees or chasing nugs. If Cullen noticed the rift growing larger between them, he didn’t comment on it. Cullen’s time was wholly dedicated to the joining the Templar Order; Caelum was done losing.

Any remaining closeness that they shared faded quietly into obscurity.

  
  



	2. The Bane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accepting the leadership role wholeheartedly, Caelum ensures that his camp is secure and peaceful. With everything going so well, he almost forgets that he's a pessimist. Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that left comments, kudos, or even just read it. I appreciate all of you and here is chapter 2 for you!

Caelum emerges from his tent right as the dawn comes. The camp hangs in that ethereal moment between day and night where everything is a pale silver as darkness surrenders to light. He can see the spray of sunlight behind the silhouetted mountains as the sun steadily climbs higher, not yet able to dip over and bathe the region in its radiance. 

He ventures into the surrounding forest, circling the camp, listening intently, and capturing every detail. Spotting a ram between the trees ahead of him, he stops short, grabbing a hold of his sword belt to avoid it clinking, not wanting to startle the animal. He watches the creature attentively, searching for any behavior that might tell him that its finely-honed senses pick up on anything that his own inferior senses can’t detect. But the ram grazes leisurely, unbothered, so Caelum continues on. He circles around once more, until the sun finally peeks over the mountain summits and shines against the icy snow, before drifting back into camp.

_ We can’t sit around much longer, waiting for something to happen. We need to act. Do… something. We’ve been out here for days, word must be coming soon. I wonder if the other camps know anything yet. Maybe I should send someone…  _

“Morning, Captain. I trust you slept well.” His racing thoughts slide to a halt at the unexpected greeting. He stares at the young woman smiling up at him, unaccustomed to the friendliness. He is more familiar with mumbles and averted eyes. The Templars cut an intimidating figure and Caelum is fully aware that his aloof demeanor does nothing to soften that image. Before he was unconcerned, he had no desire to allow any of these people to get too close. He was satisfied with remaining detached and appearing untouchable: the sheepdog doesn’t befriend the sheep, after all. 

Yet, he had made a commitment to lead these people. To succeed in that, he needs their trust and approval. They need to believe in the man, not just the security of his blade and shield.

_ I suppose yesterday truly did make a difference. I just need to keep it up. Come on, Caelum, don’t ruin it now.  _

“Hello. I mean, uh, good morning. I did, thank you. Sleep well, I mean. And you did too? Or… I hope you slept well… as well.”

_ Oh yeah, good work. Listening to you stumble about with the grace of a virgin in a brothel is sure to instill plenty of confidence.  _ He curses the traitorous blush that is undoubtedly creeping up his neck. 

She giggles behind a gloved hand, “I did, Captain. I slept quite peacefully, almost like I was home again.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He glances around in uncertainty, unsure of where to go from there and thanks the Maker when he notices his Knight-Lieutenant crouched by the fire, watching them.

Seizing the opportunity to make a polite escape, he drags his attention back to the young lady, bowing his head and already backing away. “You’ll have to excuse me. I must speak with Knight-Lieutenant Isaac about… plans. I hope you have a pleasant morning.” 

He turns on his heels and rushes across camp, groaning despairingly when he sees the smirk on Isaac’s face.

He keeps his face stern as he approaches the lieutenant, who remains silent while eyeing him with a stare gleaming with mirth, and stands shoulder to shoulder with him, both of them looking out over the camp together.

Caelum sighs in resignations as the silence stretches on, “Go on then, get all of your jokes out now so we can move on. We don’t have all day.”

Isaac snaps his head toward him in mock bewilderment, eyes wide and face a picture of innocence, “What? Captain… I’m not sure what you mean. I was going to commend you. It is very, uh… enriching, yes, enriching to see you fumble a normal conversation, humbling yourself, showing that you’re not as impressive as you look and whatnot.”

Caelum only growls irritably when Isaac nudges him, “Honestly though, it’s nice to see you come out of your shell. In all of our years of serving together, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you willingly act so friendly.”

Caelum huffs out an amused scoff, “You mean you’ve never noticed my warm and friendly disposition,” he deadpans sarcastically.

Isaac barks out a laugh, “No disrespect, Captain, but you’re a cold bastard.”

They share a brief laugh, enjoying the small respite, and lapse into a comfortable silence standing side by side, watching the camp awake and prepare for the day.

“Truly, Caelum...” 

Caelum’s gaze is drawn back as Isaac unexpectedly captures his attention again and the stolid captain is instantly taken aback by the deep sincerity in the eyes staring back at him.

“It  **is** good to see. I know that this familiarity that you’re offering to them is not something you’re comfortable with. But that’s what being a leader is about, right? Putting others before yourself. I just mean to say that… you’re doing well. Yesterday morning, they were practically diving out of the way when you’d stalk around camp. Today they’re pulling — well,  _ attempting to _ at least — you into morning chit chat,” he chuckles at the small jab, but the honesty remains.

Caelum can only nod his head in acknowledgment, at a loss for words and overwhelmed by the rush of tenderness that the confession rouses in him. 

“You know that I’d follow you to the Void,” Isaac continued, “and I’m confident that every Templar here would say the same. We already know you’re a man  **worth** following, once we get over how icy you are, of course,” he gestures out at the camp with a nod, “These refugees are beginning to see it too, now that you’re letting them.”

“Thank you, Isaac. I…” chewing on his lip, touched by the disarming words, Caelum reaches out to his friend in a rare show of affection and clamps his hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“Thank you.”

There is nothing else to say, so they stand there by the fire quietly, just enjoying the company. Isaac is incapable of going more than a moment without speaking however, and Caelum inevitably feels his elbow dig into his side again.

“Hey. Caelum?” 

He rolls his eyes, recognizing the tone and knowing that the sympathizer is gone and the jester is firmly back in place.

“What is it, Isaac.” 

“I uh... I saw you training the kiddos yesterday and-”

“Shut up.”

“I was just going to say that I think it's sweet! That Baris _ sure _ admires you. I bet he hopes to one day be a big armed, strong jawed Templar machine too. I’ll bet he’s in the woods right now, practicing his swing and carving your initials into a tree.” 

Caelum can only shake his head in exasperation as Isaac, in true Isaac form, throws his head back and laughs.

  
  


✦

  
  


Caelum’s confidence in his leadership steadily grows in the following days. Refugees and recruits alike come to him willingly, unhesitant to ask for aid or obligingly overlook his lack of social graces to just engage him in refreshing conversation. They all fall into a comfortable rhythm as they weather this tribulation together.

In the early afternoon of the sixth day, Caelum is making his usual rounds throughout the encampment, checking in with the people, overseeing the recruits, and organizing the Templars. The show of attentiveness mollifies the group; even the whiny druffalo man can’t quite resist giving Caelum a stiff nod of respect whenever their eyes happen to meet.

“Ser Caelum, good afternoon.” The genial greetings no longer catch him off guard, making him feel off balance and inept. Now, he flashes an honest smile at the matronly woman that sets herself in front of the fire every morning, noon, and night to make sure that everyone receives a decent meal. 

“Afternoon, Miss Bennett.” Peering into the simmering pot of broth and deeply breathing in the familiar scent, he allows a little levity to bleed into his tone, “what’s on the menu today, I wonder?” 

Lips curling up into a teasing grin, she gives the pot one last stir before looking up at him with an amused squint, “I hope you’re not sick of nug stew yet.” As she taps the dripping juices from the spoon and leans back to settle in and watch the fire, Caelum notices her face contort in discomfort as she lets out a quiet groan. His eyes narrow with concern as he drops into a crouch, quickly looking her over. “Are you feeling alright?” 

She flaps her hand dismissively, shaking her head at him, “Oh, I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Body’s just stiff sleeping in this blighted cold, is all. Don’t you trouble yourself over it.” 

But he’s already wracking his mind for a solution.  _ That old quilt could be helpful. It’s not like I really need it, my sleep pack is good enough. Damn, I wish we had furs. _

“I’ll bring you some extra bedding.  I’m afraid it isn’t much, only a small quilt, but it’s warm.”

“No, Captain. Really, I’m fine —”

“Please Miss Bennett, I insist,” he interrupts gently, “It’s no trouble. I sleep better in the cold anyway,” he gives her a shrug and a reassuring smile, “have since I was a boy.”

Her smile crinkles her eyes and accentuates her crows feet, reminding him of the sweet-tempered old neighbors that would ruffle his hair and smile at his boyhood antics when he was young. 

She grasps one of his hands in both of hers and squeezes lightly, “Maker bless you.”

Caelum barely has the chance to return the smile when he notices a Templar intently coming his way. He rises immediately, standing tall as the soldier stops short as soon as he’s within reach.

“Captain, we've tracked a pretty large herd of rams in the valley, but we also found evidence of wolves in that area. It would be a good food source if we could pick off from the herd, but hunting in wolf territory is risky. Do we take it?”

“Yes,” he orders soundly, “we can't live on nugs forever, there's too many of us, we need something more substantial. We can't stay here much longer anyway; soon we'll have to move and everyone will need the strength. Go after the rams, I'll send a pair of guards with you. Bring the meat back, let them deal with the wolves if they come.”  _ That may just work in our favor anyway. We could sure use the fur. _

The Templar inclines his head sharply in assent and utters a clear, “aye, Captain,” before scurrying off and leaving Caelum to consider what needs to be done next.

 

✦

 

Caelum is absently stepping out of his tent, running his hands over the heavy, worn quilt and already heading off to find Miss Bennett when he sees Baris rushing towards him, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

The young recruit is breathless when he finally reaches the seasoned Templar, “Captain! There’s a small troop approaching from the west. They look dangerous!”

Instantaneously a hint of tension seeps into him as his mind and body shift into combat readiness. Caelum wastes no time setting the bedding aside and nimbly crosses the camp, catching the eyes of the Templars and signalling to them to follow. 

Isaac appears next to him, matching his stride. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe trouble. Maybe news. Either way, be ready.”

Isaac gives a stiff nod and falls back, taking up position behind Caelum’s right shoulder. 

Reaching the edge of a clearing, where the path slopes down the mountain, he is shocked to see a small group of heavily armed soldiers marching toward them with a Seeker of Truth leading the way. 

His heart races.  _ A Seeker? They must be bringing news. Finally some news. _

He hears the shift behind him as they all at once drop their defensive postures and straighten their backs, standing tall and respectfully for the Seeker. 

Caelum takes a steady breath as she approaches. She’s a severe looking woman with a harsh scar across her cheek and dark rimmed eyes under sharply arched eyebrows and short, raven hair. Caelum can’t help but feel a shiver of apprehension as she sets her fierce gaze on him.

“I am pleased to see that you all are in good health,” she speaks bluntly, with a thick Nevarran accent, “I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. First, allow me to apologize for not getting word to you sooner. We have been quite occupied, as I am sure you can imagine. Now, however, we have much to discuss.”

Caelum leads them to the center of camp, where everyone has already gathered around the fire, hushed and waiting anxiously to hear the news that the Seeker brings. She scans the crowd of nearly two dozen faces staring at her and turns to him with a hint of a smile.

“You have a larger group than I expected. Unfortunately, most lives were lost in the villages that were hit by the rifts. I am impressed that you’ve managed to save so many.”

“Our captain here,” Isaac speaks up, nodding toward Caelum, “insisted on evacuating the villages immediately, pretty much the moment the explosion cleared. The demons were only just beginning to come through by the time we arrived, I’m sure only half of these people would be here now if he had waited to see how bad things were.”

The heartfelt support of his friend faintly alleviates the apprehension that the Seeker’s presence generates. Caelum resists the urge to turn and shoot an appreciative smile Isaac’s way. _ I don’t deserve his friendship. _

Cassandra hums in approval, “excellent decision, Captain…” She trails off expectantly, leaving it open for him to fill in.

“Caelum, Seeker,” he supplies, bowing his head in respect for a moment before securely holding her gaze again.

“Ser Caelum,” she acknowledges before continuing, “many villages, unfortunately, did not begin evacuating until it was too late. Your quick response most definitely saved their lives.” 

The praise is akin to the lyrium in his blood. It’s a revitalizing rush of euphoria that seeps comfortably into his core, captivating and invigorating, making him crave more and pray that it may never end.

“Thank you, Seeker.” Caelum stands impossibly straighter, the confidence in his voice is genuine. “It is our duty, after all. My men carried out the task excellently. Each one of them exceeded expectations to ensure the safety of the people.”

“How have you been faring since then? Sheltering and feeding this amount of people in the wilderness with no forewarning is not an easy responsibility.”

“After the evacuation I divided my men into four groups. One cleared the way while another escorted the refugees to a secure location and the other two stayed behind in the village, one to keep the demons at bay while the other gathered as many blankets and supplies as they could carry. It’s been enough so far. Some are sharing tents but we have more than enough blankets to keep everyone warm and there are plenty of nugs and rams in this area to keep everyone fed, for the time being.”

“A good strategy.” She nods approvingly. “It is admirable, how you have been managing this tragedy. They are certainly lucky to have you. I am not so sure that the other camps are faring as well.” 

With his mind still whirling from the praise, he can only dip his head in acknowledgment, graciously accepting the compliment before steering the conversation to more critical matters.

“If I may ask, do you have any news about the disaster? Any information about what caused this or what happens now?”

The question seems to visibly exhaust her and she sighs in apparent frustration, “Things are still chaotic at the moment and we are still gaining our footing, but we have someone in custody, a woman with a strange magic on her hand and the sole survivor of the explosion. She has been unconscious since her capture, but our current… expert… on the matter estimates that she should awake within the next few days.”

Caelum lets this information soak in, turning it over in his mind.  _ Of course this is the fault of a mage.  _

“The theory, as of now,” Cassandra continues, “is that the magic on her hand may be the key to closing the breach. There are many risks, but we have few options, so we will attempt it as soon as possible. We all need to be ready the moment she wakes; everyone needs to be at the forward camp. Commander Rutherford will lead you–”

The world melts away as his mind stutters and crashes over her words. 

_ Commander Rutherford. Commander. She believes that I can lead these people. She sees what I’ve done and she believes in  _ **_me_ ** _. My comrades believe in me. The recruits believe in me. The refugees believe in me. And the Seeker believes in me. I can do it. I can do this. Commander. I cannot fail. _

He can do nothing but let the instant flood of adrenaline rush through his body, making his heart thrash in his chest and his skin tingle exquisitely, leaving him feeling frenzied and intoxicated. The surge expunges all rational thought, his mind fogs in elation. 

“-he is convening with another camp, but should arrive here in a few hours time so prepare yourselves, ” Cassandra continues, oblivious to the frenzy of emotions that her address stirs within him.

_ What is she talking about? Damn it! I missed something. Who is arriving in a few hours? _

Caelum forces himself to return his attention to Cassandra, insatiably consuming every word she says

“He was active for and survived the devastation of Kinloch Hold as well as Kirkwall. He has ample experience fighting demons and volatile magic, and he is one of the finest soldiers that I know. I am confident that you all will be in good hands with him.”

Everything she says rapidly starts to fall into place; clarity slams into him mercilessly. In a single moment, the adrenaline shifts from addictive exhilaration to dreary consternation. The pleasurable tingle on his skin turns to a punishing sting, the excited thrum of his heart now batters his chest brutally; he stops breathing for a beat.  _ This is the work of a demon. It can’t be true. _

“His first name?” Caelum speaks brashly but he's too sick to care.

Cassandra eyes him questioningly for a moment, but the name slips from her tongue easily.

“Cullen.”

His mind darkens. Suddenly, he feels nothing, then he’s falling. With nothing to grab onto, not knowing which way is down or up, he powerlessly slips further and further into the darkest sectors of his psyche. The husk of his body sits there, unmoving, as Caelum drowns in the blackness of his mind. 

_ You’re foolish. You’ve always been foolish. Of course she didn’t mean you. Why would they want you when they can have Cullen? Why would they settle for less? They don’t need you. No one needs you.  _

Cassandra concludes her report as he listens absently, “It will be close to nightfall by the time he arrives, so I would suggest that everyone get a good night of rest and prepare to set out once day breaks.” She stands and they all follow suit, making their way back to the edge of camp. 

Caelum is a marionette as his Templar training moves him through the motions of decorously rising and walking alongside her, nodding his head at the right moments and keeping his gaze steady as she once again praises him for their valor.

He stands there for a moment watching her and her party descend the mountain path, then he finds himself back at the center of camp, staring into the fire.

A man approaches him. Caelum can see him fiddling with a tent rope in his peripheral vision, “Captain, might I ask for your assistance for a moment?”

His eyes don’t stray from the fire. They stare deep into the flames, unmoving, unfeeling. They start to burn. 

“The Commander will be here by nightfall. Whatever it is can wait until then.” His tone is vacant, exposing how desolate his mind is.

He hears the man gather a breath, preparing to say more, but the fire seizes all of his attention as the flames shift out of focus and his vision blurs. 

He’s hitting the bottom of the abyss, and abruptly he’s feeling too much. His armor is too tight, crushing his chest, his lungs push desperately against his rib cage. His pauldrons are too heavy, they’re pushing him down, he can’t move his arms. The air is too thick, too hot. He can’t breath. He’s suffocating. He needs to escape.

Lurching away from the fire, his head swivels as he searches for an opening. He distantly hears the man gasp and the confusion is clear in his voice as he nervously asks what's wrong. Caelum pays him no mind as his vision is drawn to the frozen woods that surround them. He spins on his heels and briskly moves through the camp, ignoring the bewildered looks he's receiving and fighting to restrain himself from breaking into a full run.

Caelum can vaguely hear his name being called, but it sounds so far away, distorted, like it's calling to him from high above on the surface as he sinks away. A distant part of his mind tells him that it’s Isaac.

_ Don’t stop. You’re going to lose him anyway. He’ll meet Cullen and you won’t be enough anymore. _

He keeps moving until the trees surround him and he is weaving in and out of the thickets, leaving camp behind. He charges forward aimlessly, running from the malicious thoughts that befoul his mind.

Wrenching his sword from its scabbard, he stalks across the woodland searching for danger. Bears, wolves, demons, anything to bloody his sword and trigger his Templar training to take over and numb him.

But the woods are silent, all life having either fled or lay cowering out of sight under the thick cover of the underbrush, frightened by his display.

The silence swiftly becomes too much. His thoughts are catching up with him.

Clutching the hilt too tightly to hide the tremble in his hand, he hefts his sword at a tree, satisfied with the way the blade connects solidly with the hardy wood. He slashes at it again, throwing his weight into it, but the hits fail to send a thrill down his spine. His wrists weaken and strain painfully and his shoulders throb in protest, but he doesn’t cease his assault. Bark splintering and pelting his face, he hacks at the tree brutishly but the weightlessness that he seeks never comes.

An enraged cry escapes him as he heaves the blade once more, cutting deeply into the wood and throwing himself off balance. His sword falls from his hands as he stumbles back and drops to his knees, tearing his gloves off and digging his hands into the snow, curling his fingers around the icy flakes.

Head bowed and eyes closed, panting, he almost doesn’t notice the rhythmic crunch of snow steadily growing closer.

He doesn’t raise his head, he doesn’t have to. He knows who it is.

As the footsteps grow close enough for him to feel the presence behind him, he opens his eyes and lifts his head a fraction to see armored boots step into his line of sight. They move past him, and a small part of Caelum desperately wants to smile as he watches one boot lash out and kick at the base of the battered tree.

“Stupid tree,” he hears Isaac scoff before his metal wrapped arm reaches down and lifts his sword from where it lay on the ground. Then his boots approach again and Isaac is crouching in front of him, head dipped so his wide, deep brown eyes can stare into Caelum’s with thinly veiled concern, but his familiar smile is on his face.

‘Hey,” Isaac, still looking into his eyes, casually reaches out and smacks Caelum’s shoulder with the back of his hand, “stop that.”

Caelum ignores him. Isaac sighs and stands back to his full height, and flippantly tosses Caelum's sword at the ground in front of him.

As the sword drops in front of him, the sleek silver a stark contrast against the white snow, he finally looks up at Isaac, who grins widely at him and backs up a few paces before bowing elegantly and drawing his sword with a flourish.

“May I have this dance?” he asks with an eyebrow cocked.

Caelum remains mute as Isaac’s jovial grin slides into a challenging smirk. He lowers his gaze again, staring at the blade in the snow. He runs his fingers down the cold, wet steel until they brush over the leather hilt. His fingers curl around it comfortingly, then suddenly he’s on his feet, rushing at Isaac and meeting his sword with a reverberating clang. 

They dance, twisting and bouncing between each other’s strikes. Caelum rocks back to evade a stab at his steel-plated ribs. His sword sweeps through air as Isaac springs back to avoid a swipe at his legs. His arms rattle as he brings his sword up to block a forward hit. A shrill screech pierces his ears as the two blades slide together as Isaac parries the hit. The captain and the lieutenant exchange blow after blow, linking blades and locking eyes, trusting in the other. The resounding clash of metal on metal and their harsh breathing overtake the clearing. His mind clears as his body shifts into the comforting rhythm of combat.

They pause to catch their breath as a vigorous collision knocks them both back. Isaac, looking into Caelum’s eyes and seeing the clarity in them, lowers his weapon.

“You back?” Isaac asks between gulps of air.

Caelum feels his heart still beating in his chest; he flexes his fingers, blood still pounds through his body. He sees his breath fog in front of his face, his lungs are still working. He is exhausted, but the exhaustion clears his mind.

“Yeah… I’m here.” He says languidly, lowering himself to the ground and leaning back on his hands, letting the snow cool his body.

Isaac drags his feet over and drops down heavily beside him, “I’m not going to pretend to know what’s going on in that head of yours. I don’t fully understand this whole…” he waves his hand in the air vaguely, “...brother thing. But I meant what I said. Brother or no brother, I’ll walk straight into the Void with you, watching your back the whole way.”

“That…” Caelum trails off, struggling to form the right worlds, “It means a lot to hear that, Ike. It really does.”

“Well, that's what I’m here for. Just, you know, it doesn’t  _ have  _ to be the Void,” Isaac shrugs suggestively, “that was just an example. We can keep it simple and just keep beating up trees.”

“A tempting offer,” Caelum chuckles, “but we should probably go back.” 

“Yeah,” Isaac agrees, nodding impassively, “we probably should.”

But neither of them move to stand. They remain seated together in the snow, side by side with their well-worn swords resting next to them, and take a few extra moments to just enjoy the calm.

Caelum muses over the fact that he and Cullen will face each other again after nearly seventeen years.  _ I’m not that naive little boy he remembers. I’m a stranger to him now.  _ In a few hours, Cullen will see the man that he became, and as he thinks of that moment, Caelum determines that he will not be broken.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan on updating every two weeks. It may be a little late or early every now and then, but two weeks is the schedule goal. So see you guys then!


	3. The Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee... it's been a month! I'm so sorry that this is so late. I got sick and had to deal with that for almost 2 weeks, the PSX 17 and I was away for that (It was awesome, btw), then Christmas, and now here I finally bringing a new chapter in 2018. Geez, Louise. Anyway, back to regular uploads and I hope everyone had a great holiday and new year!

The sky is beautifully awash with an array of oranges, reds, and violets as the sun sinks below the mountain range. The vibrant hues clash grandly with the stark, snow-capped mountains as the world above seems to boast of its radiance to the crisp land that slumbers below.  It’s breathtaking, but the splendor of twilight only amplifies the trepidation that froths in Caelum’s stomach.

Cullen will be here soon.

_ He’s just another commanding officer. I’ll treat him the same as I would anyone else. _

The vow goes ignored as his knee maintains its anxious bouncing, the itch on his palms doesn’t wane, the tremble in his arms doesn’t lessen, his heart continues to ache, feeling heavier than it should as it stumbles around in his chest.

The anxiety is a familiar presence in his mind by now, a beast that tormented and cowed him throughout his childhood. It has been chained for some time, shackled by cold regime and unmerciful discipline. The captain thought he’d grown stronger than it, but now as it tramples over his mind just as powerful as he remembers, he senses the terrifying realization that he may have failed to leave the weak little boy behind when he became a man. He can’t leave him behind, not completely. He has always looked weak next to Cullen. The years move forward but they don’t change. Cullen has always had the power to unchain the beast.

Caelum closes his eyes and steels himself to hold back the nausea that slithers up his throat as his hollow gut continuously rolls over itself.

_ Breathe. You’re not sick. Just breathe. It’ll be fine. Everything is different now. I'm still their captain. I have respect. I've earned that respect. He will see that, he'll have to. He can't take that from me. How long has he been a commander? Kirkwall… Kinloch Hold… he must be different now too. _

A small voice from a hushed corner of his mind, muffled beneath the beast's rampage, snakes its way through.

_ Thank the Maker he's okay. _

A nudge against his knee snaps him out of his musing and as he looks up to notice Isaac regarding him quizzically he realizes that he’s been blankly staring at his sword across his lap, lost in thought, for the past several minutes.

Looking away from his friend without a word, he silently resumes sharpening, running the stone over the blade in even strokes, smoothing out the damage that he recklessly beat into it.

_ That was smart. A sword versus a massive, firmly fixed tree. Very smart, Caelum. _

Caelum feels a delayed burst of embarrassment at his tantrum, thankful that Isaac was the only one to witness it.

Isaac has been a constant presence at his side as they wait for the Commander's arrival. The witty soldier kept up his usual brand of jokes and banter, but Caelum can see that he’s worried. Now they quietly sit next to each other sharing the warmth of the fire, tending to their blades, smelling the slow-cooking stew that Miss Bennett is preparing for dinner and keeping an eye on the mountain path that Cullen and his party are sure to travel.

They don’t have to wait long. A flurry of nervous energy swirls through Caelum’s chest as one of his Templars comes into view over the slope of the path with a look on his face that clearly bears news. He already knows what's coming.

“Captain, the Commander and his party are in sight.”

Caelum only nods before dropping his gaze back to his lap and taking his time wiping down his sword. He only needs a moment to collect himself. With the weightlessness of his head — the dizziness that blurs his vision and encumbers his feet — he knows if he stands now he’ll surely tip over. Leaning into the fire’s light, he turns the sword over in his hands, ensuring that the blade is smooth and free of scratches while he takes time to ground himself and lock down his mind. He can feel the soldier standing over his shoulder, watching him and waiting for orders; it agitates his already frayed nerves.

_ I don't know what to tell him. I don't even know what to do with myself. _

Sharing a fortifying look with Isaac, he gathers the will to sheathe his sword and pull himself to his feet, hoping that he appears more poised than he feels. It turns out to be a useless endeavor as the first few steps toward the mountain path are enough to drive his body further into its panic. His stomach grows tighter with each step closer that exposes more of the open, mountain landscape. He wants to turn back. He doesn’t want to reach the end where his identity will be laid out and crushed beneath Cullen’s heel.

_ He probably won’t even recognize me. Maker only knows if  _ **_I'll_ ** _ recognize  _ **_him_ ** _. What will he see when he looks at me? What will he say? It doesn't matter. I have nothing to say to him. _

As he reaches the curve of the slope and the alpine view opens up before him, his eyes immediately take in the small group of men hiking toward him, but his attention, as well as his breath, is wholly captured by the unmistakable blonde hair leading the march; blonde hair that is a mirror image of the pale curls that rest atop his own head.

The rush of his pulse is spurred impossibly faster, the blood moving so rapidly through his veins that he fears they’ll rupture. The ache that settles in his limbs and the sting of the icy sweat over his skin nearly draws a whimper from his lips as he feels his heart turning to stone and hammering against his chest so painfully that he swears it’ll bruise.

As Cullen comes nearer and the shadow of a beard marred by the pale scar cutting across his lip becomes clearer, Caelum nearly buckles as he sees his world that he has painstakingly constructed start to collapse.

_ It's all over. Everything I've done means nothing. They'll look to Cullen now. They'll follow Cullen now. They'll respect Cullen now. Cullen. Cullen. Cullen. What's left for me? What am I? All they'll see is that I'm not Cullen. _

He can’t handle it. As everything falls apart around him with each step Cullen takes, he questions if he was ever strong. At this moment, he doesn’t know if he’s a boy or if he’s a man. Is he a baby brother or is he a Knight-Captain? Has he been fooling himself all this time? Was his merit real or did it only appear that way in the absence of Cullen?

He can hear himself breathing erratically, the air rushing in and out of him in short, irregular bursts. He can feel the sway of his body as the world spins around him. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he counts evenly, willing his breathing to match it.

_ One… breathe. Two… breathe. Three… breathe... Four...breathe. Five— _

A sharp tug of his elbow from behind forces his eyes open. Just barely out of arm's reach, Cullen stands off-center like he stopped mid-stride and recoiled back, and gapes wordlessly at his estranged brother.

Caelum’s body betrays him as every muscle locks up, his tongue, dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth, blocks his attempts to form words and forces him to stand uselessly and watch the fiery eyes of the commander flit about his person, taking in every outward detail that makes him Caelum Rutherford: the deep green hues of his eyes, the warm golden tones of his hair, the matching jagged scar that runs down his lip, another before his ear that is just barely visible to those that know where to look, all evidence of the boy Cullen once knew and the adventurous childhood they shared.

Muscles trembling, stomach twisting, and throat quickly growing tighter, Caelum’s system is flooded with dread and adrenaline in equal parts as he witnesses the exact moment that Cullen chokes on his breath as striking clarity slams into him.

They’re both trapped in each other’s gaze, amber locked onto emerald, taking no notice of the confused stares of the men around them. Cullen is the first to break free, taking a step toward his brother; the movement releases Caelum as he instinctively takes half a step back, shaking his head numbly as his mouth moves fruitlessly around his tongue, trying to speak, trying to regain the stern professionalism that has gotten him so far.

Cullen persists though, taking another step forward and speaking at last in breathless, fragmented words, “Ca—Caelum...Cal…”

So sudden it causes both Rutherford men to flinch, Isaac steps up to his friend’s side and commandeers the strained reunion.

“ _ Captain _ Caelum,” Isaac cuts in firmly, his face empty and not revealing a hint of his jovial personality, “and the rest of us here have been awaiting your arrival, Commander. It's a relief that you all made it here before nightfall. We almost started to worry.”

“Captain…?” Cullen’s face twists in blatant confusion, obviously still trying to process the fact that this man is the little boy he left behind all those years ago. He looks to the ground as if the prints in the snow will let him retrace his steps and reveal how his gawking baby brother became a soldier.

Isaac takes the opportunity to duck back respectfully, giving Caelum an encouraging nod as he retreats back to his position hovering just behind his shoulder. Glancing back to silently send Isaac his thanks, his eyes scan over the faces of the Templars under his watch and the crowd of refugees under his care, and he feels his resolve start to put itself back together.

Locking away his emotions, straightening his spine and forcing the steel back into his eyes, he addresses Cullen like a captain.

“Yes, I’m Knight-Captain Caelum and this,” he waves an arm back, “is my Knight-Lieutenant Isaac. As he said, we’ve been looking forward to your arrival. We’re all proud to have the opportunity to help in restoring order and we’re prepared to assist in any way we can. Now, I know the journey here must have been difficult and we clearly can’t set out again until morning so, please, enjoy a meal. Warm up by the fire.”

He trails off hesitantly when the shock and confusion on Cullen’s face give way to sorrow, and Caelum feels the quiet hum of longing as he remembers a time when nothing but love and excitement shone in those eyes.

“Also, Cullen, it's…” the words come out on their own volition and he struggles to keep up and string them together, unsure if he even has the true desire to complete them, but in spite of all the rage and resentment the thought of his brother’s name being among the dead is enough to push the acid of his stomach up to his throat and the words out, “I’m glad to see you.”

He tries to make sense of the myriad of emotions that flash across Cullen’s face; a flicker of something that Caelum has never seen before in those eyes glows faintly, before the Commander gives a stiff nod and reaches out to grasp Caelum’s forearm in a gesture that they must have done a thousand times with their comrades, and gives it a firm shake.

“I am glad to see you too.”

Cullen’s voice is tight and controlled, but Caelum can hear the steadfast warmth that simmers just below the surface of his restraint. His eyes stern but still fond, like the hardened caramel that Mia would sneak into their coat pockets every winter.

After a beat of thick silence, Cullen pointedly clears his throat and lets his vision wander beyond Caelum’s rigid shoulders to sweep across the group of men standing at attention behind him.

“We are certainly grateful to have you all with us. Standing together, I have no doubt that we can triumph over whatever is upon us.” Shifting his gaze back to his brother, Cullen dips his head and tugs his mouth up in a soft smile that almost staggers Caelum with how much nostalgia it brings.

“And I thank you for the thoughtfulness; a warm meal would be wonderful. After though, I would need a moment of your time. There is much to discuss… Captain.”

Caelum only nods in acceptance, suddenly exhausted from too many thoughts and emotions clashing together in his mind, and pivots around, the movement signaling his men to break apart and clear the path, and gestures Cullen and his party onward.

The energy is palpable as they march through the center of camp. Caelum made sure to have everyone eat beforehand to avoid crowding the newcomers but the anxious refugees still linger around their tents, inching closer until they're hovering just outside of the glow of the fire, hungry for scraps of news.

Miss Bennett, fastidiously watching over her cooking as always, smiles kindly up at them as they approach and dishes out generous helpings to each of the guests as they tiredly drop around the pit, all releasing sighs and groans of relief of being off of their feet and languid mumbles of thanks as they take their bowls.

Caelum has to resist the urge to roll his eyes as Cullen remains standing, indecision written all over his face as he debates between taking the empty seat right beside him or crossing the pit and shoving himself into a spot next to his brother. His shoulders sag as he eventually concedes and settles in across the fire when Miss Bennett raises a bowl at him encouragingly,

“You must be the commander we’ve been hearin’ about all day. Maker knows it couldn’t of been easy gettin’ here. Sit down, Commander, and have some supper.”

“Thank you, ma’am, and please, there is no need for titles right now, just call me Cullen.”

“Oh, none of that ‘ma’am’ nonsense. My name is Ruth.”

“Well then, thank you, Ruth. It looks delicious.”

“You’re a flatterer, aren’t you, Cullen? I know nug stew isn’t makin’ anyone's mouth water.”

“When you have been marching through this blighted winter all day,  _ any  _ warm meal is mouthwatering, I assure you.”

Caelum feels the tip of that barbed spike of bitterness prod at his chest as he watches Cullen and Miss Bennett smile, tittering back and forth and comfortably trade pleasantries like they’re a pair of old neighbors.

The sound of their chatter must have drawn the loitering refugees nearer because they’re suddenly boxed in by the restless crowd. Just as the thought of dispersing them makes its way to Caelum’s mind, Cullen sets his bowl aside and gets to his feet to address the group.

“Good evening to all of you, I am Commander Cullen. You might have heard that I would be coming here today to assist in moving you all to another more secure location. This is correct. We have a base camp where all of the displaced citizens affected by this tragedy are gathering while we sort this out. When it is deemed safe, you will be moved again. There is a village, Haven, that has agreed to open their doors to all of you. You will all be safe there.” Cullen pauses as a murmur passes through the crowd and a spiteful part of Caelum hopes that the crowd will protest, that they’ll descend on Cullen with shouted complaints and criticisms, but they quiet down as Cullen speaks again.

“The base camp is quite a walk from here so we need to leave at first light. Everyone, please, make sure you have all of your belongings packed and ready to move to avoid any delay tomorrow.”

Caelum bites his lip to keep himself from leaping out of his seat to interrupt.

_ They  _ **_are_ ** _ packed! They  _ **_are_ ** _ ready! How incompetent does he think I am? Does he think I've just been here sitting on my hands, waiting for him to show up and think for us? _

The moment there's a gap in Cullen's address the questions start firing from all sides.

“What about the demons?”

“What about the mages?”

“How many others are there? What if they run out of room?”

“Will Haven expect compensation from us?”

“When you say ‘first light’ do you mean that literally? We have to get up at dawn?”

Somehow, Cullen calms them with a placating smile and a wave of his arms.

“Please, please, everyone. I hear all of you. I know it is daunting, going into the unknown, but I give you my word: we are here to ensure that each and every one of you makes it through this. No one is getting left behind. We came here today to grant protection to all of you and that is exactly what we are going to do.”

Beneath a chorus of relieved exclamations of “thank you" and “bless the Maker,” Caelum watches the smoke curl away from the fire, ambitiously reaching toward the stars, before dissipating uselessly just like all of his worth and he tells himself that he doesn't feel any pain when no one looks to him for answers or reassurance anymore. It's an aching reminder that despite how passionately he tried to escape the bonds of inferiority and how far he's come, this trench of dismissal and indifference will always be his home.

Still, he can't keep his teeth from gritting and his nails from cutting into his palms beneath his clenched fists every time he sees Cullen's easy smile shine through the reaching smoke.

 

_ ✦ _

 

“Does he think I’m an idiot? I mean honestly, why would he feel the need to tell us to pack our belongings? He thinks I’m incompetent enough to wait until the last minute to get everything in order? Of course, everything is packed! We’ve been ready for hours—”

“—Come on, it wasn’t—”

“—We’ve been managing just fine without him, better than fine, actually. He struts in here draped in that gaudy fur— what is  _ that  _ about, anyway? Just so we all know how  _ important  _ he is, no doubt—”

“—Didn’t  _ you _ think it was a good idea to get some wolf furs just yester—”

“—He doesn’t need to stand there stating the obvious. I know what I’m doing. I’m at least intelligent enough to have  _ some _ common sense. Tomorrow is he going to make sure that we know to put one foot in front of the other too?”

Caelum has kept his rant going strong, smashing right through all of Isaac’s light-hearted attempts to cut in, for the full ten minutes that they’ve been traipsing through the forest under the guise of scanning the area of predators and he doesn’t plan on running out of steam anytime soon.

“Hey, hey, stop for a second. You keep working yourself up and you’ll never get any sleep tonight,” Isaac tugs at his arm, forcing the affronted captain to twist around and regard the wide brown eyes that look a little too innocent to be genuine.

“Look, Caelum… you’re my best friend, you know I love you, so don’t stab me after I say this… maybe you’re overreacting a little —a little! I just mean, I don’t think he was trying to imply that you’re inept. You might be blowing it out of proportion.”

Caelum sets a heated glare on his friend, feeling the annoyance build as Isaac finishes with an over exaggerated shrug of his shoulders.

“You don’t understand. It’s always been like this. You don’t know what it was like growing up with him and having  _ everyone _ just… just… accept that he was great. And I guess there’s only room for one great Rutherford man because everyone, even Cullen himself, expected me to stay down, stay in my place, and out of Cullen’s way as he… forget it. Nevermind. We should get back.”

“No, don’t end it there.” Isaac reaches out to grab him again but Caelum is already weaving around him and purposefully heading back towards camp, walking as quickly as he can without breaking his attempt at nonchalance. Isaac walks right on his heels, keeping pace with his temperamental friend.

“Caelum wait. Caelum. Come on, you know you can’t ignore me, Caelum.... Cal… Cally… Cally-Wacker… Cally-Cakes… Cally-Love-Lumps… Cal—”

“Maker! Are you aware of how annoying you are?”

“... well, you have a big head. Just listen for a minute. I’m not saying that you’re wrong for however you’re feeling. Just… try not to read into it so much. We’re with him whether we like it or not, he’s our commander. He’s going to be giving orders and we’re going to be following them. I’m gonna have your back no matter what, but I don’t want to see you drive yourself mad over perceived insults. There’s bigger things to worry about right now.”

Releasing a deep sigh, wanting to lay right there on the forest floor and sleep until the whole thing is over, Caelum can’t deny the truth of Isaac’s words.

“I know. I know I can’t afford to let this get to me so much. It’s just been so long since I’ve been under his shadow, I’m just… having trouble getting used to it again, I guess.”

Isaac snorts at that, rolling his eyes and roughly cuffing the side of Caelum’s head.

“Shut up. You under his shadow? Cal, I’m still waiting to see if  _ he  _ measures up to  _ you _ .”

 

✦✦

 

Cullen has been trying — and failing — to inconspicuously trail behind Caelum as he does his nightly rounds. With every glance over his shoulder, there is Cullen standing a few paces back pretending to inspect a tent rope or fix something on his glove, at one point intently examining a tree trunk; it would be funny if it weren’t grating on Caelum's already frayed nerves.

_ I suppose I should just get it over with. _

Spotting Baris emerging from his tent pulling his gloves on and gearing up for his round of night watch, Caelum intercepts the young volunteer before he gets too far.

“Baris. Go ahead and get a few extra hours of sleep, I’ll take your watch tonight.”

Baris, walking a little taller now but still as jittery as the first time he approached the captain, fixes those doe eyes on Caelum warily like he’s not quite sure if he’s being tested or not.

“Eh… oh. You sure? Right. Yeah. Okay. If you say so. Thanks, Captain. Thank you. Right well... G'night then, Ser.”

Once Baris scampers back into his tent, Caelum impassively calls over his shoulder, “Care to join me, Commander? We can talk. I’m afraid there isn’t much privacy here at camp.”

“Oh!” he hears Cullen’s footsteps quicken until he sidles up next to him wearing a deep blush that’s visible even in the dim moonlight, “I was just... having a look around. You have a good camp here… it’s well-ordered...”

Caelum only grunts in acknowledgment, leading Cullen to the outskirts of the sleeping campground before launching straight into business before Cullen has a chance to speak.

“We have a large group, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, moving them will be difficult. How far is this forward camp?”

Cullen’s disappointment in the stiff, professional tone is apparent in the drop of his shoulders, but he doesn’t resist and lets a conversation between a captain and commander take over.

“At least a day’s fast walk from here. If we leave at daybreak and keep a swift pace, we should arrive before nightfall. Can they endure a day of walking? Are there any sick, injured, or elderly?”

“No sick or injured, no. There are a few elderly though, and a number of small children. They’ll need a rest.”

Cullen shakes his head at that, staying silent in thought for a moment before decisively rejecting the suggestion.

“That will not do. We need to cross too much distance. If we stop we would end up traveling into the night. It is too dangerous, especially with a group this large and we cannot waste a night making another camp. It is certainly not ideal, but we will have to push them. We cannot lose any time. The prisoner could wake at any moment.”

Caelum grits his teeth at that, wanting to argue just for the sake of defying him, but he bites his tongue and remembers his place. He’s a Knight-Captain, not a little brother.

“By your orders, Commander.”

Cullen looks at him with an unexpected flash of emotion, something brittle and despondent and so unfamiliar on his face that Caelum has trouble grasping it, but it spawns a throb in his chest, nonetheless. Before he can turn it over in his mind, Cullen presses on.

“What of your defenses? Who else protects all of these people?”

“The only trained soldiers that we have are me, Knight-Lieutenant Isaac, and two other experienced Templars. The rest are still recruits and a handful of brave volunteers.”

Eyebrows creasing into a squint and mouth tugging into a flat line, Cullen does nothing to mask his disbelief while Caelum does everything to mask the blaze of irritation it sparks.

“These people are being protected by recruits and volunteers?”

Bristling at the criticism he hears in the tone, a coil of indignation wraps tight around his chest as he chokes down the curse-filled diatribe that threatens to discharge.

“We’re not in a position to be turning away arms. Every person that was willing to fight and protect their neighbors was another life spared. They’ve more than proven themselves and they are a large part of why we were able to save so many. Seeker Pentaghast said we’re the largest group of survivors she’s seen yet; that means we’ve done something right.”

He doesn’t quite manage to keep the bite out of his tone as Cullen’s shoulders curl in, shrinking him down and conveying his desire to avoid provoking the sensitive captain.  

“It was not my intention to insinuate anything. I trust you. I just… It is not often that people are willing to put themselves in harm’s way and just… seeing how they stood behind you this evening, the fact that they have done that of their own accord, no oaths, no duty. I am… proud of what you have done here.

Caelum works to keep his face blank as rousing gratification and bitter vexation war for dominance in his mind.

_ I don’t care. I don’t need his approval. I don’t care. _

The pleasant flutter in his belly is beyond his control, however, despite how much anger it invokes. He hates himself for caring. He hates that the part of himself that should have died long ago— he’d done everything he could to kill it— that yearns to be someone that his brother looks to as an equal still lives.

He fights to keep the warmth he’s ignoring from slipping into his voice.

“Thank you, Commander.”

Cullen heaves a sigh and turns away, leaning a closed fist against a tree and running a hand roughly through his hair. Caelum can see that his face is pinched in frustration and the muscles of his jaw shift faintly as his restraint breaks and he whirls back around to finally talk to his brother.

“Can we please stop pretending that this is standard, that we are just basic comrades? I worried that I would never see you again.”

“Would that have mattered?”

Although barely whispered over the brisk wind of the mountains, the question carries with it enough force to stagger the valorous commander as he lurches back and gapes at his sibling with a deep, wounded stare.

“Yes! Yes, of course, it would matter!”

Unable to face the conviction in those eyes and the certitude in that tone, it's Caelum that turns away now and roots his gaze to the sparse plants that manage to endure the snowfall, suddenly missing home and his sanctuary in the hills.

Behind him, Cullen continues softly, “I—I know our relationship is… damaged. I cannot deny that, but you are my brother, that will always be true and it will always mean something. You will  _ always  _ matter to me.”

Caelum is suddenly so tired. The exhaustion dribbles from his wearied mind and seeps into every joint and muscle. He wants nothing more at this moment than to go back to his tent, shut his eyes and block out the tangled medley of relief, resentment, comfort and hostility that have been endlessly tumbling over each other since the Seeker first spoke Cullen’s name.

Body and soul both pleading for rest, he turns back to connect to golden, impassioned eyes and speaks with as much truth as he can manage.

“I just want to do my duty, Cullen,” he loathes the waver in his voice, the tightness of his throat and the sting in his eyes, “I don’t want to have conflict with you, I don’t have the energy. Not now. I just… I need to focus on what matters right now. Those people are what matter right now. I can’t think about  _ this,” _ he finishes, gesturing back and forth between himself and Cullen and praying that it’ll be enough for tonight.

A sigh deflates his body when Cullen surges forward unrelentingly, his tone taking on a frenzied edge as he desperately tries to pull answers from his evasive brother.

“What is there to think about? I know we fought. I know we—I said awful things, things I regret and I am still ashamed of, but we can fix it. Can we not try?”

Shaking his head vehemently, Caelum stumbled over his thoughts, at a loss for how to make Cullen see that this conversation will lead to nowhere, “it’s not that. That was just another piece of it… like I said, I don’t have the energy. Talking isn’t going to change anything. You don’t understand—”

“—Help me then. Help me understand. Please, Caelum, I want to try.”

Dragging a hand across his face to scrub away the fatigue that settles under his skin, desolation bleeds from his tongue as he fights to bring this conversation to an end.

“It’s not something that you can understand, Cullen, because even after all this time, you’re still you and I’m still me, nothing will change that.”

Beneath the rustling of the branches in the wind above them, a silence stretches between the eldest and youngest Rutherford brothers. Caelum hesitates, watching and expecting Cullen to interrupt but he appears restrained, arms tight against his sides and jaw firmly clenched shut, waiting for more. The clear dejection dripping from Cullen’s posture has guilt twirling listlessly in Caelum’s chest. He has no desire to hurt his brother. Exhaling heavily, he proceeds as openly as he can.

“You’re right; we are brothers. I don’t  _ need _ to feel like your brother right now though, we need to just be comrades. You’re the commander, I’m the captain. Let’s just focus on those roles. Please.”

The pain still swims in Cullen’s eyes, the doubt still written across his frown, the questions still weighing down his shoulders, but he concedes with one short, precise dip of his head.

“Okay… okay, Captain.”

 

✦

 

Finally alone again, lying in his tent after being relieved by the next guard, Caelum's mind compulsively turns over every moment with Cullen despite the deep exhaustion that tries to force him into submission. Sitting up with a frustrated growl, he grabs his pack of supplies, shoves all of his bedding out of the way, and pulls back the flap of his tent to let the moonlight spill in. Talking to his sister has never failed to calm his thundering anxiety, even when land, time, duty, and war separates them.

 

 

Folded and tucking it carefully into a pouch alongside a stack of other letters that he hasn’t gotten the chance to send yet, he lays back and sends a silent ‘thank you’ to Mia when his mind remains quiet. Throwing blankets back over his drained body, sinking into the warmth and memories of home, Caelum is at last greeted by sleep.

  
  
  



	4. The Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caelum meets the gang and hates nicknames.

The Breach can only be described as imposing. The forward camp stands tall among mountains, so close to the icy summits that he feels as if he could reach out and run his fingers along the silhouette of the range. Still, the Breach looms over them mightily, splintering the sky and appearing as if there is no force in the world great enough to threaten it.

Standing so near it now, seeing the steady thrum of power, Caelum can feel the unease that permeates the air, that sinks into his flesh and pollutes his blood. He can see it in everyone around him, the unabated distress that hunches their shoulders and shuffles their feet, that puts puffy bags under their eyes and smears red around the iris. 

He spots Cullen standing at the battlements with Seeker Pentaghast and two others, a dwarf and a second woman. There is an unexpected tug, an inane desire to flee to his brother’s side and escape this toxic energy that swirls around him, but he dismisses it, shaking his head at his foolishness. He’s not the frightened little boy that needs to go running to his big brother’s room when the forest looks sinister outside his window at night.

_ I just didn’t sleep well, that's all it is. I’m tired and stupidly nostalgic. _

Hoping to avoid any more harebrained impulses, he turns away and nimbly ducks into Isaac’s tent, scooping up a fistful of snow as he goes. 

Inside, his friend is pulling on arm braces, brows furrowed in concentration as he focuses on tightening the straps with fingers made numb and clumsy from the cold. He starts to look up, no doubt already expecting Caelum, and before he can utter a greeting — or a sardonic comment, more likely —  snow suddenly splatters across his face.

Isaac recoils, sucks in a comically loud breath, and freezes in place like he was hit with a spell rather than one of Caelum’s rare bursts of immaturity. Mouth agape, arms still held aloft with one half strapped brace, and russet hair mussed with snow clumps sliding languidly down his face and melting into his collar, the lieutenant is a caricature of shock. He blinks at nothing for several moments before his chocolate, wide-blown eyes shift over to Caelum and the rest of his head slowly follows. 

“What in the Maker's glorious mercy was  _ that?”  _

Caelum only gives him a flat stare and a half-hearted shrug. 

“Sorry. I was just checking.”

“Checking… checking what? What is wrong with you? No, really, _what_ is wrong with you.” 

Ignoring him, Caelum steps into the space between them to grab ahold of the arm that is starting to flail around dramatically as Isaac becomes more and more animated, and begins re-strapping the forgotten brace. 

Isaac’s energy is palpable even on the slowest of days. Now, fully fueled like this, its presence could rival that of the Breach. Caelum can only imagine what passersby outside are thinking; he allows the smallest smirk to settle on his lips as Isaac’s voice goes an octave higher in his ranting.

“No, Cal, no. There’s something wrong with you. The shit you do to amuse yourself… I mean… Andraste help us all! This is why I’m your only friend. What was I even thinking trying to be friends with you, the hostile, loner kid? You were probably the weird boy that would go off alone in the forest and pull the legs off of insects. You would throw dragonflies into fires, wouldn’t you? Of course, you did. Weird bastard. I'm too nice, that’s what it is. I’m too damned nice!”

Finishing off the straps with a solid yank, he finally looks up at Isaac and gives another simple shrug, “I said I was sorry,” and turns away from his best friend’s exaggerated pout to exit the tent and step back into the tainted, mountain air. Isaac steps out behind him after a moment, quietly grumbling as the remnants of his rant continue to trickle out under his breath. 

Immediately, Caelum tilts forward, ready to drag Isaac with him toward the refugee tents, but he stops short when he registers the silence next to him. Isaac’s silence never leads to anything good.

He looks over to see his lieutenant’s gaze fixed on something in the distance, and as he follows it his eyes land on exactly what he was hoping to avoid—Cullen and his strange group.

“There’s the Seeker,” Isaac jerks his head towards them before leaning into Caelum with an impish grin and lowering his voice mischievously. “I’m gonna tell on you.”

He’s off before Caelum can stop him, already striding—practically skipping—over to the group. The captain shakes his head and huffs gruffly at his friend's antics, but follows after him willingly, glad that invigorating Isaac’s lively personality still never fails to quell is own dread.

Caelum can see his commander in the center just beyond the two women. The group appears to be ensnared in a somber discussion by the way Cullen’s eyes, dour and burdened, scowl indiscriminately at the area around the Seekers knees, his head dipping and tilting along with whatever she’s saying.

Already feeling the mood shift, Caelum’s steps slow and a hand twitches with the impulse to grab Isaac’s elbow and change course. Before his body could catch up with his brain’s demands, Cullen’s gaze lands on him and a ghost of a smile somehow lights up his whole face, crinkling his eyes and painfully reminding Caelum of the brother from his dying memories.

Noticing the commander’s redirected attention, his companions turn their heads in unison and eye him with varying degrees of intrigue and scrutiny. It’s too late to turn back now. At once releasing a sigh and squaring his shoulders, he marches on after Isaac with a resolve that’s usually reserved for battle.

The Seeker raises a pointed eyebrow as Isaac nearly skids to a stop in front of her, far too chipper considering the current situation… and the early hour… and the bitter cold… and everything else that would dampen the mood of any  _ normal  _ person; Caelum tries to keep his eyes from rolling too noticeably. 

_ This is what I get for encouraging him. _

He casually steps into the space between the Seeker and the perky lieutenant with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his head tipping in greeting. He silently thanks the Maker when the Seeker speaks before Isaac gets the chance.

“Captain Caelum. Lieutenant Isaac. I am pleased to see your camp all settled in this morning. Commander Cullen tells me that the journey went smoothly, despite such a large group to look after.”

“It did, Seeker,” Caelum confirms, deliberately not turning to look at Cullen, “with everyone’s cooperation we were able to move quickly and relatively quietly.”

She nods in a way that is both abrupt and graceful, “we can only hope the march to Haven will be just as successful.” Turning slightly to open herself up to both sides of the group, she gestures to each of her companions in turn.

“You already know Commander Cullen, clearly. This is Sister Leliana, Left Hand of the Divine.” The woman, Sister Leliana, dips her head without a word and offers them a faint smile that somehow makes Caelum uncomfortable. It feels dangerous, that smile, but he’s not quite sure why.

“And this…” the sigh that Seeker Pentaghast releases when attention is turned to the second stranger is nearly inaudible, but the clear reluctance to introduce the dwarf is loud enough, “is Varric Tethras.”

The dwarf, Ser Tethras, doesn’t appear slighted in the least. He looks up at the new comrades, flashing a wide grin, “Good to meet you. You know, I—”

“ _ Varric _ ,” the Seeker drags the name out through gritted teeth while aiming the most impressive glower Caelum has ever seen down at the dwarf, “will not be staying.”

Completely unperturbed by the hostility directed at him, Varric Tethras just looks up at them with a smirk that could rival Isaac’s and shrugs his shoulders.

“She keeps saying that, yet here I still am.”

Caelum, at a loss for words, just stares back at him uncomfortably, unsure if he should be laughing politely or nodding or ignoring the quip altogether. He doesn’t want to insult the Seeker but he’s also unsure if he should risk insulting these new strangers. He doesn’t know how close Sister Leliana is to this dwarf, and his every instinct is telling him to tread carefully with her.

_ Maybe I’m overthinking this. Is it just normal banter for them? I mean, Isaac and I verbally abuse each other all the time, it’s just jokes. But what if it’s not? Maker, I don’t want to be caught in the middle of this. _

He wants to look away toward Isaac for a moment to gauge his reaction, but he’s too self-conscious about looking like a lost idiot, so he quickly darts his eyes toward Cullen. His brother is watching the exchange with a half smile and a small squint of amusement, obviously familiar with the scene before him. 

Caelum works on copying that expression, but before he can manage it, Sister Leliana speaks for the first time. Her voice is smooth, soft and very Orlesian and it sends a shiver down his spine with how disarming it is.

“Captain, might I ask where you’re from?” 

Caught off guard, he opens his mouth, then stupidly closes it again, feeling sweat start to gather on the back of his neck. For the second time that morning, his eyes seek out his brother. Apprehension is evident all over Cullen’s face, wrinkling his brows and tightening his lips as if he thinks that Caelum might actually make something up to avoid revealing their ties.

The silence stretches on a moment too long. The Seeker shifts, facing him fully, the full force of her gaze bearing down on him while the dwarf leans forward on the edge of his toes eagerly, bushy eyebrows slowly raising in interest.

“Honnleath.”

Isaac subtly shifts closer to him until their shoulders touch. The Seeker narrows her eyes at him, then Cullen, then back to him while Varric does the same, only with more theatrics and a delighted grin on his face.

Sister Leliana hums, but her face remains calmy blank, “and your last name?”

“Rutherford,” he doesn’t hesitate this time, doesn’t bother fretting over it. He knows what she’s probing at, “Cullen is my brother.”

Sister Leliana isn’t startled by this revelation, as far as Caelum can tell. She only nods evenly, acceptingly, and folds her hands behind her back. On the other hand, Varric's eyebrows shoot up straight to his hairline and he cranes his neck up at Cullen, shoving an elbow into his hip with a chortle, “What a twist! Why didn’t you say anything, Curly?” 

The Seeker is less amused. That impressive glower is directed at him now, and Caelum nearly trembles with the effort to keep his gaze from falling to the ground.

“It seems you’ve failed to mention that when we spoke.”

“I didn’t think my family tree was relevant at the time.”

His deep-rooted defiance won’t allow him to drop his gaze, and he meets her glower head-on, refused to allow himself to be cowed.

Varric, bustling with energy, steps closer and shoves a hand out toward Caelum, palm out, “How could you not have seen it, Seeker? Look at him! Just drape a rug over his shoulders and smack a blush on his cheeks and he can be Curly’s official stand-in. Curly, Why didn’t you ever tell me you had a baby brother following in your footsteps?” he shoves his other hand out toward Cullen, mirroring the gesture he’s making toward Caelum, “Curly and Curly, Jr.”

The temperature around Caelum drops to a lethal degree as his entire body goes taut, hackles raising and muscles growing stiff, eager to lash out. He knows his face has hardened, he can feel his mouth pulling into a snarl and his eye twitches as he bites painfully down on his tongue to hold back the flood of venom that fills his mouth.

The incensed captain is just contemplating how much trouble would befall him if he tosses the dwarf over the battlements when Isaac takes one step in front of him. The evidence of his earlier good humor is still on his face, the warm, expressive eyes and the amiable smile surround him with a pleasant air. Convincing, but Caelum knows him well, he can see the carefully concealed sharpness in the smile, the fire behind the murky brown eyes

“Wow… ‘Curly, Jr’… forgive my ignorance, Ser Tethras, but I would have thought that an author such as yourself would be a bit more imaginative. The world continues to surprise me.”

“Ouch,” Varric stretches the word out slowly, still smiling roguishly. Like Isaac, he also appears pleasant and in good humor, but Caelum considers the fact that he doesn't know Varric like he knows Isaac, he doesn’t know what truths lurk behind the charm.

“Well, I would hate to disappoint a fan.”

“Oh, no. Don’t worry,” Isaac waves his concerns away with a friendly chuckle, “I’m not a fan.” 

His smile comes dangerously close to showing too much sharpness, too much friction, but he blunts it when Cullen coughs purposefully into his fist. 

Caelum ducks his chin into his collar to hide his smirk, Cassandra displays hers openly. Varric, looking more amused and vaguely impressed rather than insulted, backs away with his palms up, looking between Isaac and Caelum with a keen eye, “Alright, alright. I get it. Apologies, Captain.”

“No need for it,” Caelum stiffly shakes his head at the apology with a frigid stare and a smile that could best be described as nasty.

“Enough of that now,” Cassandra instructs, not as sternly as Caelum would have expected, “we were discussing a plan of action—”

“—which you should be privy to, Caelum” Cullen cuts in suddenly, surprising all of them, if five pairs of eyes promptly whipping toward him are any indication. He backs up a little but doesn’t deflate beneath the attention, “Our numbers are growing and I cannot lead all of them entirely on my own. As Captain, the only one of your rank here, your aid, in the forefront with me, would be invaluable.”

“I—”

He glances around nervously for a moment, his mind briefly agonizing over what they all might be thinking.

_ Would he be saying that if I were anyone else? If my family name was unknown to them? I… I can lead though. I can help. I know I can. I wouldn’t be hesitating right now if  _ **_he_ ** _ were anyone else. _

“Yes, I—I want to help in any way I can. I’ve already given myself to this cause, entirely. I’ll do whatever is needed of me.”

“Well then, I will go ahead and excuse myself. It was a pleasure meeting all of you.” Isaac ducks his head respectfully as he backs away, sending Caelum a sideways smile before turning on his heels and stepping away from the circle.

The discussion starts up again immediately and Caelum quickly finds himself struggling to keep up with what seems to be a mix of inside information and more bickering between the Seeker and the author.

“Leliana and I are going back to Haven, we intend to remain there until the prisoner awakes; Solas is sure that it will be soon now. He should be returning here shortly, and you all will remain here until Leliana sends word. Only then, Cullen, will you and your soldiers begin clearing the path to the Temple.”

“And me and Chuckles will meet you and our mystery friend halfway, Seeker.”

“No, you will not. You will stay out of the—”

“Chuckles will need to show her whatever secret, magical handshake seals those rifts. Curly and Cur—Captain; I’ll come up with something later—will need their soldiers at the Temple. Me, Bianca, and  _ two or three  _ soldiers will be all the backup he needs to hold out at the nearest rift until you show up.”

Seeker Pentaghast and Mr. Tethras stare each other down, neither of them willing to give the other an inch. It’s Cullen that steps up to break the moment.

“He’s right, Cassandra. If we have an opportunity to avoid spreading our soldiers too thin, we must take it. Solas, Varric, and a pair of soldiers—”

“—and Bianca—” 

“—are more than capable.”

Varric grins triumphantly at the Seeker when she rolls her eyes, a gesture that Caelum is surprised to witness, and shakes her head in irritated defeat.

 

✦

 

The discussion was long and tense, but Caelum returns to his tent feeling light and satisfied. Being included, despite the fact that he felt out of touch for large parts of it, gave him a new sense of validation and attainment, the likes of which had been devastatingly ripped out of him when the Seeker first spoke his brother’s name.

A tapping on his tent, followed by said brother’s voice, pulls him from his thoughts.

“Caelum? May I enter?”

“Yes, come in.”

Cullen ducks into the tent, slipping through the slit quickly to beat the rush of frigid wind that tries to push past him, and stands awkwardly, looking nervous and uncertain. He doesn’t say anything, seeming rather busy with staring down at his hands and shifting his weight, so Caelum leaves him to it. Turning his back to his commander and unclasping the sheath from his belt, he leans his sword against the thick canvas wall and settles down on his knees to rummage through his bags, doing his best to ignore Cullen lightly stepping up behind him. 

“May I?”

Tossing a glance over his shoulder, he sees Cullen eyeing his sword, one hand hovering over it patiently. 

“Be my guest,” the muffled reply comes from inside of his bag as he turns away and sticks his head back in, growing frustrated and angling it more into the filtered light, spilling some of its contents across his feet. He pays no mind to the mess, too focused on what he seeks. The familiar ring of steel sliding free from its scabbard creeps into the bag to reach his ears just as his eyes land on the little wooden box.

“Wow,” Cullen’s voice is whispered in admiration, running his fingers reverently over the twin dragons on the hilt, “it is beautiful.” 

Caelum hums lowly in the back of his throat, not paying the compliment any mind, and finally steps away from the bag with his prize hugged close to his chest.  

“How did you acquire it? This is not standard issue.”

“I earned it.”

He pointedly leaves it at that and moves to sit cross-legged on the floor in the center of the cramped tent, laying the kit in front of him reverently, almost holding his breath as he opens it. 

They say lyrium doesn’t have a scent, but he can smell it; he can smell it just as assuredly as a wolf can smell blood. It’s a scent so powerful that he can almost taste it in the air, he can almost hear it whispering sweet comforts in his ear.

It doesn’t escape his notice how Cullen's knuckles go white around the hilt of his sword or how his mouth opens to suck air through his teeth because he can surely smell it too. He files the observation away though, tucks it somewhere just within reach in his mind because now, the lyrium commands his attention.

Taking a deep, steadying breath when he absently becomes aware of the tremor in his hands, he begins freeing his left arm from its armored shelter. The gauntlet is put to the side without a glance. The doublet is rolled as far up his bicep as he can get it, doing an adequate enough job of cutting off the circulation and making his arm a valley of bulging veins against the cold.

Since the explosion, since pushing back the demons, rounding up the people and sequestering themselves in the mountains, they’ve been preserving their lyrium supplies. Day three saw them relying on half a dose, day six knocked them down to a quarter. Caelum nearly wept with relief when he was handed a fresh supply upon entering the new camp.

“What are you doing?” 

Caelum doesn’t give Cullen much of a reaction, not to the question nor to the aghast inflection of his tone. Honestly, he would be content with just ignoring it all together, but propriety and training dictate that he answers his superiors, so he does, keeping his eyes on his treasure and his voice laced with disinterest. 

“Does it truly require an explanation?”

“Why an injection?” 

“Because it’s necessary. We’ve been relying on drops for the past week and I need to be at my best. It’ll be stronger this way. You understand.”

“Is it  _ truly _ necessary, though? In spite of everything, I cannot say that I have ever— “

“—well maybe one day I can endeavor to be as great as you!”

He didn’t intend for the words to carry so much bite or the tone to wield such a blatant growl, but it’s too late to reign it in now. Cullen falls silent, still eying him and twisting his grip around the hilt of his sword, looking torn and uncomfortable. 

Caelum sighs, feeling guilty, and irritated by that guilt.

“I don’t do it often.”

Cullen deflates at that, clearly not satisfied with the reassurance, but he mercifully lets it go. Turning away and carefully sheathing his sword and leaning it back against the tent wall, he finally takes note of the letters spilled out across the floor from Caelum’s bag.

“All those letters. Do you have… you know… a girl or… lady friend?”

He can’t help but let out a dry laugh at that, “no... no, they’re… they’re from Mia, mostly. Rosie and Bran too and some are from me, I just hadn’t been able to send them. I’m sure Mia must be at the edge of her sanity waiting to hear from me.”

From the box, Caelum pulls out a thick, leather pouch and carefully twists the seal off, peering in with one eye to look at the fine, blue dust. 

“You write to each other?”

“Of course. They’re my family and at least  _ one _ of us has to be bothered to check in with them.”

The words are thrown over his shoulder without a care, they only pass through his mind after they leave his mouth, and his hands pause. 

“I… apologize, Commander. That was untoward.”

“...No, it… it is not untrue… how are they?”

His hands resume, measuring out the dust expertly and tilting a flask, adding water.

“They’re well. Many from the village were able to return, and Branson took over the farm after Mother and Father… he wouldn’t let it be forgotten. His wife is a blessing—I've still no idea how he managed to pull that one off—and he always moans that his boy somehow turned out to be wild like the two of us. They’re trying for another child, last I was told, now that Emmett’s nearly nine. ”

A small, steel rod is pulled out next and the mixture is stirred in quick, tight movements until it’s a smooth, cerulean liquid, then poured carefully into a metal vial.

“Rosie’s taken to breeding and training horses. She loves it. It’s dirty work but she loves it and she’s good at it. And it keeps Emmett from getting into too much trouble because he’s enamored by it all; he likes to help. She says he handles those horses better than some grown men.”

He rolls a tube the length of his index finger and the width of his pinky over in his hand, listening to the rattle inside, before gripping it and carefully prying off the cap and covering the opening with his other hand. He tips the tube and between his fingers, carefully catches and pulls out a single, fine, metal needle.

“She’s got herself latched on to some  _ boy  _ though. Some  _ muck _ that she picked up at South Reach and apparently decided to bring home with her. The scum…”

His rambling trails off as the needle is delicately attached to a glass syringe and dipped into the vial and he finds himself enthralled by the sight of lyrium flowing beautifully into the barrel, his heart hammering in anticipation. 

“…Mia says he’s a decent enough sort.  _ Decent. _ I’ll wait until I can look him in the eyes and see for myself how  _ decent _ he is. Rosie’s young, she’s… I can’t imagine trusting any man with her.”

Carefully putting the syringe between his teeth to keep the needle from touching anything, he squeezes the hand of his exposed arm into a fist and rubs his free hand up and down the crook of his bare elbow, urging the veins to stand out even more before taking hold of the syringe again.

“And Mia… is still Mia. Still taking care of everyone and everything. She took in some travelers last winter, housed them, fed them, didn’t ask for a single coin. I keep telling her that it’s dangerous, especially now. Korin—her husband, good man—tries to put a stop to it but, well, you know Mia.”

The words die out as he focuses on landing the tip of the needle faultlessly on the vein that stands out wanting and ravenous and emptying the syringe, sating his blood.

The rush isn’t instant like a tidal wave, it happens progressively like the springtime floods that would sometimes hit Honnleath when he was a boy. The lakes and rivers would fill gradually, overflowing and spilling out into the endless valleys until the entire village would be encircled by water. It’s a calm progression, gentle and steady.

His eyes shudder fleetingly before falling shut, allowing himself a moment to savor the feeling of lyrium sweeping through his body. Already, he feels stronger, he feels lighter, he feels his mind clear, he simply feels  _ better _ . The task they’re facing doesn’t seem so impossible.

Releasing a deep, revitalizing breath, he pulls the needle out, hands stable and sure, and drops it into a separate tube. Deftly, he begins replacing the tools piece by piece, but his hands slow as Cullen’s silence finally gains his notice.

Caelum doesn’t turn to inquire about it. Feeling strangely abashed—though he doesn’t want to think about why—he keeps his head down, sealing away all of his supplies with more attentiveness than necessary and pressing a finger to the tiny wound. He doesn’t want to look into Cullen’s pitying, judgmental eyes and see his own weaknesses reflected in them. In a transparent attempt to avoid answering any more questions, he fills the silence with some of his own.

“Who’s Bianca?”

“Excuse me?”

Cullen sounds slightly out of breath for some perplexing reason, a slight wheeze accompanying his voice as if it has only just returned to him.

“Bianca. Solas, too and uh,  _ Chuckles. _ Ser Tethras mentioned fighting alongside these people. Do you know them?”

Unexpectedly, Cullen laughs, short and full, and Caelum involuntarily turns around to witness it.

“Bianca is the name of his crossbow, I have no doubt that you will be formally introduced. Solas is an elven mage that has offered his aid with the prisoner and the rifts; he seems to know a great deal about the magic at work here, and  _ Chuckles  _ is just what Varric has taken to calling him. In spite of our protests—some louder than others—Varric enjoys bestowing nicknames upon nearly everyone he meets, I am certain that you will get yours soon enough.”

Thinking back on his first interaction with the dwarf, the jokes and the casual ridicule, a scowl readily takes its place on his face.

_ ‘Curly Jr.’ I’ll scoop my own eyes out with a teaspoon and have them for lunch before I let him call me that. _

“If I wanted someone addressing me by some nickname, I’d tell them. And I won’t stand by and let anyone mock Isaac or any of my people either.”

“Caelum, I assure you, it is not a mockery. Varric is merely… colorful. He means no offense by it. In any case, I would never allow any insults toward you to go unchallenged in my presence.”

Sorely unwelcome, flashes of a boy come to his mind, young and hurting, angry tears stinging his eyes as the Templars he’d looked up to laughed and jeered at him for being small and weak and having the gall to think he could be more. A big brother standing behind them, not defending, not challenging, but laughing with them.

A bitter edge cuts its way to his voice, settling in and scraping at his words until they can only come out brittle and jagged.

“Really now? … is that so,  _ Brother _ ?”

Cullen’s eyebrows knit together in an expression that looks to be confusion and exasperation in equal parts.

“What does that mea—”

The flap of the tent is thrown open at that moment, effectively cutting them off as a man that Caelum vaguely recognizes as a scout steps in quickly to address them.

“Apologies for the interruption. Commander, Solas has just returned and he wishes to speak with you urgently.”

“Thank you, Jim. I will be out in a moment.”

Cullen doesn’t turn back around right away. He stands facing the swaying flap where the scout just departed. Caelum stares at his back for a moment, feeling tension once again start to overwhelm the air between them. He turns his attention away, focusing instead on straightening his sleeves and replacing his gauntlets. 

Cullen, suddenly feeling so far away, his posture stiff and carrying an unseen weight, finally turns and speaks toward Caelum with a look that passes right through him.

“May I introduce you to our Fade expert, Captain?”

Feeling anxiety start to rumble in his mind, he busies himself with tightening the straps of his sword belt, idly making sure it’s on right by smoothly pulling the blade out halfway and sliding it back in with a deliberately loud shriek. When he reluctantly looks into Cullen’s eyes: they’re dark, frustration and something else unknown to Caelum carefully hidden behind a cooled gaze. 

The disappointment he feels at the loss of warmth is enough to make him want to curse himself for his tone, for his ability to push everyone away and make them regret making an effort. Maybe it isn’t a feeling at all. Maybe he is the disappointment. 

_ It’s no bother. I’ve never needed any supporters anyway. _

The hollowness in his chest speaks volumes to the contrary.

“Of course, Commander. Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	5. The Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caelum fights, goes to the Hinterlands, and fight some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING**
> 
> This chapter contains mentions of rape and descriptions of violence.

The snow is gentle here in Haven, the winds are calm and the air clear. Even the lake, trapped in an icy casing, captive to the onerous winter, feels cool in Caelum’s wistful imaginations. Despite the Breach still looming over them, Haven feels true to its namesake.

It’s surreal to have this new home—temporary though it may be—with a new purpose and new duty, to no longer call himself a Templar.

The Inquisition is what they are now. He surprised himself with how readily he accepted this new role. He is Captain Caelum now; the Knight is no more. Parting with it should be disquieting. Losing the Order should be poignant and terrifying. It should feel like a piece of himself was severed and the time and blood he gave to the Order tossed away.

Instead, to his confounding surprise, the sight of the Inquisition banners invigorate him in a way that he hasn’t experienced in years. Pride swells as he stands over their training grounds, it swells so powerfully that he nearly doesn’t register the anxiety that floats steadily in its current. It can’t be ignored though and he has long since given up hoping that it can be washed away. It will continue to drag along, drifting and bobbing, until the pride, the happiness, the comfort dries up and the anxiety can settle into the cracks left behind.

For now, it creeps below the surface. He can wallow in the pride as he watches recruits throw themselves into this Inquisition with laudable conviction. Their numbers have doubled in size since the official notices had gone out. One by one, then group by group, men and women flooded the training grounds, standing at attention before him and the Commander, pledging their lives and loyalty and requesting to fight.

_I guess the tales of the Battle at the Temple have done a fine job of rousing the fighting spirit in these people._

Three weeks have passed and Caelum is still hearing retellings of that battle, each one a little different than the next, becoming slightly more grand and romantic for each new listener. It’s no matter; he knows what took place in those ruins. He remembers the scent of char and enveloping sense of foreboding making each breath a battle in itself. He dreams of the dark, impassive voice from the vision, the chilling demon called Pride, the indisputable relief of seeing Cullen beside him through clouds of smoke and ash.

Fighting by his brother’s side was both foreign and familiar. As he caught glimpses of Cullen across the battlefield, curls disheveled, shining bright and golden over a face caked in sweat and dirt, Caelum could almost see the rolling hills of orchids and daffodils of their home around them. When he felt the brush of Cullen’s back against his as they weaved and dodged around each other, he could nearly make out the excited voices of their siblings. As he spun around to see a Shade that he would have been too late to block fall at Cullen’s feet, he could so clearly picture the self-assured smirk and the snide, “ _Good thing I’m here to watch your back, little brother.”_

Reality denied all of it though. Cullen’s face was hard-set and dour as he pulled his sword back and threw himself at another demon with only a cursory glance at his little brother. The voices of his siblings in his mind were drowned out by the cries and screeches of death and desperate survival. The colorful hills of his childhood rotted away to blood sprayed stone, crumpled bodies, and wrathful green.

And the Herald.

Caelum has never questioned the Maker. He accepts His will, whatever it may be, wherever it may lead him, and prays that he can fulfill whatever purpose it presents to him.

But their Herald, Nyla Trevelyan, puts doubt in his mind. The doubt only exists in a drip, just enough to tease his instincts, but it’s distinct and unceasing and the dogged captain is desperate to find its source if only to silence it in his mind.

She’s not a mage as he had assumed. She's not with the Chantry or Templars. She's not a soldier or a noble. Though House Trevelyan holds some nobility, her branch is curiously undocumented. By all accounts, she’s an ordinary woman from an unworthy part of a mildly distinguished family. She reminds him of his sisters in a lot of ways, simple people with a simple life.

The way she wields those daggers is anything but simple, though. The ease in which she stepped into the fray, slashing and stabbing with all the boldness of a bloodied veteran, is not ordinary.

There is more to her than what's revealed to them and perhaps it’s none of his business; it unsettles him nonetheless.

He has trust in this Inquisition though. He trusts in the de facto leadership of Seeker Pentaghast and the three that stand beside her—his brother among them.

He feels no apprehension when he pushes open the doors to their war room deep within the chantry. When the elven runner hailed him during his morning training, reciting that his presence was requested at the war table at once, Caelum expected another tiresome meeting in the long and growing series of tiresome meetings.

When he slips past the heavy doors he’s not greeting by the crowd of officers, scouts, and agents that he anticipated. Inside, alone, is Cullen. The commander leans over the massive, dominating table—so large that it couldn’t have possibly fit through the door; it must have been built inside the room, or the room was built around it.

“Captain, new orders for you.” Cullen doesn’t waste any time, he hardly looks up from his reports before launching into the brief as soon as the doors slam shut.

Cullen has been distant these past few weeks, only speaking to the captain about official business and the progress of the recruits with a stiff countenance and reserved tones. Caelum has caught him in moments where his eyes soften and hopeful words seem to be right on the edge of his lips but he always seems to think better of it and aborts, pulling himself back and away, widening the gap that divides them.

_I suppose all of my pushing him away has worked. Imagine that._

“Tomorrow you are to set out for the Hinterlands,” Cullen straightens, looking at his captain fleetingly, probably accidentally, before immediately looking away. He lifts one of the reports from the table, staring down at it as he continues his orders. Caelum knows he’s not reading.

“Unfortunately, the fighting between the rebel mages and Templars is worse than we imagined and the Herald could use the extra support as they focus on the rifts. We have also received a report from Cassandra about militia groups organized in the area. See if you can speak to their leaders about allying themselves to our cause.”

“Of course, Commander,” Caelum keeps his tone as bland as his face as he stares at the cracks in the wall just over Cullen’s shoulder, “but why hasn’t Seeker Pentaghast spoken to the militias? She’s certainly suited.”

Cullen sighs, slouching forward to lean over the table again and aimlessly busy his hands with shuffling his papers around. His shoulders droop a little and some of the authoritative air he’s been holding up spills straight onto the floor. “Josephine thought it would look…tacky…for the Herald to be seen appealing for Chantry support as well as a military force in a single breath. She decided that it would be better for our image if the matters were handled separately.”

Nodding in understanding, Caelum thinks back to the few interactions he’s had with the Antivan and instantly erases any further questions on _that_ particular matter; she leaves him with the impression that she could dismember him with a few well-placed words and he has no desire to test the accuracy of that impression.

“Well, I’m not going to be the one to argue against Lady Montilyet. They’re meant to see about getting some horses as well, right? Rosie breeds some fine horses, as I've told you, and Honnleath is just a few days away.”

_Maybe that’s why I feel so soothed here. This is the closest I’ve been to home in years. I could finally see them if I get just a few days to myself…_

Home is so teasingly near. He’s been waiting for an excuse, any excuse at all, to make a trip to Honnleath. To sit down at the dinner table with his siblings all around him again, to hear Rosie squeal as he flicks a pea into her hair and Bran snort with poorly concealed laughter as Mia threatens to make them all eat outside in the barn with the rest of the animals, and Cullen… well… for his own sanity he tries to avoid thinking of Cullen’s place among them. Too much has changed.

He looks at Cullen now, at the tired slump of his shoulders, the downward curve of his mouth and the crease between his brows, and doubts that things could ever be what they once were.

“Yes, that is true,” Cullen stretches the words out slowly, cautiously, “I had similar thoughts. Though I hardly imagine that she can spare very many, we need anything we can get. I will send word to her as soon as possible.”

 **_You_ ** _will send word? No. You’re not taking this from me._

“With all due respect, Commander, I would rather send word to her myself. I care for her and having the first letter she receives from you in years be a request to use her horses is sure to hurt.”

Caelum bites his tongue but it’s too late. It’s always too late. The jab has already been sent and he can only watch as Cullen’s jaw tightens and a flicker of ire passes through his eyes; his response comes through clenched teeth and a tightly controlled temper, “The implication there is not appreciated nor necessary. She is my sister as well; I care for her just as much as you do.”

 _Just as much as you do..._ It burns him to hear those words, to know that _he_ was the one who stayed up after tireless hours of training and used his last scraps of energy to write home. _He_ is the one who reassured them with his shaking fist clenched around the pen that Cullen was probably fine and just _very busy_ . _He_ is the one that traded tear-stained letters as they mourned their parents.

_He stands in my face claiming to care just as much, yet he hasn't put in even a fraction of the effort. He just can’t acknowledge that I succeeded in something he’s failed at._

Caelum’s own temper flares and his self-control has never been as good as Cullen’s.

“Forgive me,” he does nothing to conceal the sarcastic bite in his tone or the scorn in his eyes, “I didn’t intend to imply anything. I have no doubt that you care. I’m sure you were at least thinking of them when you chose not to write.”

Cullen’s scowl deepens with every word. He steps up to Caelum, reports forgotten as he holds his arms stiff at his sides and his back straightened, standing at his full height—as if the inch that he has over his brother will be enough to cow him. Caelum barely holds back a sneer at the display.

“Do not condescend to me, Caelum. Clearly things between us are not as I had hoped, but I have been _trying._ Is a similar effort truly too much to ask of you? I have accepted you rebuffing me at every turn. I have accepted your erratic mood shifts, your barbed words and vague slights because I understand that you're angry and you have a right to be. Now, however, my patience with your attitude is beginning to wear thin.”

“What do you understand?” The question, spoken rapidly before the commander can even finish his last breath, is barely intelligible. Caelum huffs at the silence that follows, letting it stretch on uncomfortably before clarifying, “You said you understand my anger. Tell me. Explain to me exactly what you think you understand _._ "

The strong front, again, begins to crumble away as Cullen opens and closes his mouth, demeanor cracking to reveal hints of uncertainty. Several times, he gathers a breath, grasping for the right place to start, and several times he’s stopped short as doubt grips him and drags him back down.

“When… it was… when I left to officially train for the Order… we had a… the argument we had on my last night. What I said to you about you perhaps not being… suited… for the Templar Order. I now realize how hurt you were by that and I am sorry for it. Truly, Caelum, I am sorry. And of course, there is also the matter of me failing to write home for so many years, for which I have no true excuse.”

Cullen hangs his head. Caelum snorts contemptuously in a parody of a laugh, “You understand shit-all, Cullen.”

“Excuse me?”

“To start with,” he straightens up, standing at _his_ full height now, letting the sneer settle securely on his face, “you didn’t tell me that I wasn’t _suited_ . You said I wasn't good enough. You said that watching behind a post and swinging a stick around at a tree wasn’t enough to be a Templar, that I couldn’t understand the importance of it. You gave me this pompous speech about being myself, and _not trying to be something I’m not._ I needed to quit following after you, I needed to grow up and settle on my own path, focus on learning about the duties to the farm and being ready to take more responsibility. You don’t remember that speech, Cullen?”

“I nev—”

“And you know what? It only pushed me even harder to prove you and everyone else wrong, to show that you’re all foolish and ignorant. So don’t give yourself so much credit. You didn’t hurt me—you can’t. No one can hurt me.”

His clenches his hands to hide the sudden shake that’s overcome them and rants through Cullen’s attempt at a response, needing to keep talking, needing to mask the strained heaviness of his breath.

“That’s not even the half of it but let’s move on, yeah? As for the letters, don’t act like it’s so plain. It’s not about you not writing the damn letters. It’s about the fact that you already had your back turned to us _long_ before you went away.”

“How dare you say that?” Cullen’s clenched fists twitch with an impulse that Caelum knows well. “You have always been prone to dramatics, Caelum, but—”

The anger is back now, burning in Cullen’s eyes like smelt gold while Caelum’s green grows colder, emerald touched by ice and frost. They stand nearly chest to chest, nearly shouting, nearly letting the remains of their control slip away to bash their arguments into each other.

Caelum’s teeth grind together foully and he realizes that he wants this. He wants this fight to happen. He’s wanted it for a long time. “The moment you laid eyes on the Templars you didn’t have a second to spare for us, unless it had to do with helping you train! And still, _seventeen years later_ , I can count on one hand how many times our family has been _blessed_ enough to hear from you. Not even the loss of our parents could spur you—”

“Watch how you speak! I did write to them. I wrote as soon as news of Honnleath reached me, as soon as I was told of their passing. I used every resource available to me to verify that Bran and the girls were at least all safe and together. I wrote to them, the letters just got lost; everything was in chaos. I cannot be blamed for that!”

Cullen’s anger is tangible, filling the room with a blaze that would have anyone else sweating and flinching away from the searing heat. But Caelum is Winter. He is dense snow, frigid winds, and dark skies. Winter isn’t quelled by the rays of the sun. The snow will merely reflect the blistering light and the foolish don’t realize they’re being burned until it’s too late.

“My letters got lost too!” Caelum’s voice breaks. He cements it with a thick rage, “Do you know what I did about it? I wrote another. I sent letter after letter. I didn’t care if I needed to write a new one every day, I wasn’t going to stop until I got something back because they’re my family!”

Cullen’s rocks back, eyes wide and wounded, unable to hit back with anything, unable to even bring a shield up. Caelum claims his advantage and pushes forward.

“Everyone— including you—looked down on me as the _lesser_ one, but there is one thing that I have over you for certain: our nephew knows who I am. I know what kind of people Bran and Mia married. I know what their lives look like right now. I know when they’re happy or troubled. I know what they wish for, what they pray for. And I know that they trust me to be there for them. I still have that because I never let it go. Maybe that did make you better than me—a better Templar.”

He laughs again, that dry, sardonic laugh and stares right into the defeat in his brother’s eyes.

“But you know, Cullen, for once, I can’t find it in myself to care.”

Cullen’s chest heaves as a red bloom creeps up his neck. Whether it’s from anger or shame, Caelum doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He has no energy left to care. He turns and hauls the door open. Cullen makes no effort to stop him and Caelum is glad for it; he has packing to do.

 

⧫

 

The feeling of lush grass beneath his feet, the dry air, and the sun on the back of his neck is almost enough to lighten Caelum’s mood. Almost. For despite its serene waters and warm air being an enjoyable change from weeks of snow and ice, the pleasantness of the Hinterlands still can’t quite shake the irritation that still lingers from his fight with Cullen.

Kayleigh—a scrappy lad of only nineteen who lacks finesse but makes up for it with ferocity—and Isaac have been wisely keeping to themselves as Caelum stomps ahead of them along the road, temper flaring once again as his mind goes over the argument for the hundredth time that day.

_He’s a moron. A bloody, self-righteous, stupid, prick. Tells me I’m just dramatic. Dramatic would have been knocking him right in his smug teeth._

His thoughts die off and his stride slows to a halt as a wagon comes into view, overturned with its contents scattered across the empty road. It’s an ominous sight.

He glanced behind to briefly share a silent understanding with his company; they each nod in acknowledgment and creep forward as one, footsteps silent as they walk in a slight crouch, eyes scanning every direction. They keep a grasp on the hilts of their swords, silencing the clinking against their belts and ready to draw as they approach the deserted wagon.

It’s empty, as Caelum would have guessed, save for a few wooden utensils and pieces of clothing, but the wind around them is sour and foreboding, carrying a scent of death.

Isaac crouches, carefully lifting a piece of fabric, a modest pale blue blouse. He rubs his thumbs over the material, squinting up at his captain.

“What do you think?”

Caelum doesn’t get to answer.

“Captain! Over here.”

Kayleigh stands just off the side of the road across from them, looking down at the base of the tree line and—Ah. There it is.

The body of a man lays crumpled in the thick grass, face unrecognizable under a mask of coagulated blood. There are no slashed, jagged wounds from claws or teeth, or burns or blisters from a battle spell; only the stark bruises of a beating and the encompassing black stain of blood from a blade to the gut.

A leaden throb takes form in his chest, twisting around his lungs and stealing his breath as he denies what the scene says to him.

_No. This couldn’t have been Templars. It’s not possible._

Unable to look away from the body and the bruises beaten into it, he barely suppresses a flinch when he’s called again, this time by Isaac. Nodding at Kayleigh to stay put, he pushes through bushes and branches deeper into the forest until he finds his lieutenant crouched next to another body.

A woman: short, slight, and mostly naked as her dress had been cut open straight down the middle, small gashes trailing down her body where the blade must have nicked her. Her eyes are open, brilliant blue frozen in an anguished stare, painting the atrocity that was laid upon her. The deep, purple bruises across her throat illustrating how it ended.

Caelum feels a savage fury building inside of him, screaming and thrashing against his self-control.

_Marauders. Fucking marauders. That’s the only explanation. Seeker Pentaghast must have missed them somehow. Templars couldn’t have fallen this far._

He willfully ignores the voice in his head whispering that Templars _have_ fallen that far before, that he’s heard the murmurs of what some mages have endured in their care.

 _No_ . _Even at their worst, the Templars aren’t the monsters._

He looks at the woman, then glances back to where he can see Kayleigh standing forlornly over the other body, and promises that they won't be forgotten. He remembers every face that he couldn't save when the rifts first opened. He remembers every fighter that didn't make it to Haven. He'll remember this couple too. He'll fight for them, no matter who their enemies are.

Tugging her dress into place as much as they’re able, he and Isaac gently carry her to lay beneath a thick tree crowded with full bushes and irrepressible flowers. Without a word, unable to find any words, they go back for the man and lay him tenderly next to her.

There are no rings—bandits wouldn’t leave without them—but they're not needed. Looking at them together is enough to know that they were husband and wife.

They cover them as best they can with leafy branches and a scarce collection of embrium, regretting that they don't have anything to clean their faces, and stand in solemn silence as Isaac says a short prayer.

As they move back onto the road, Caelum lets his gaze linger on the couple for a second longer and silently asks their forgiveness, before following after his men, taking point and continuing on.

 

⧫⧫

 

The march through the desolate valley after the pseudo funeral is marred with a dense weight; not even Isaac’s exuberance or Kayleigh’s youthful energy can subsist the somber mood. Nothing is said as they follow the road—the same road that couple was probably following, seeking the same destination.

Isaac’s face is carefully blank. His solid, chocolate eyes stare straight ahead, mouth set in a firm line and footsteps even and measured in their march. Kayleigh displays his fury openly in the shallow grinding of his teeth, the feral glint in his pale green eyes and the angry stomp of his boots. They all want blood and they intend to find it.

Stepping into Redcliffe at last is such a relief that it could almost feel like stepping into a different world. The sight of kids dashing around low walls and carts, dogs barking after them and parents sitting around fires warms all of them. The life here, the evidence of people so able to adapt and find normality in any situation, loosens the tension in their shoulders and expels the scent of death that has followed them all this way.

The militia is easy enough to spot, gathered on the outskirts and standing larger than they initially thought, with nearly thirty men and women. They may be haphazardly trained—if trained at all—but they’re willing and determined to fight, and that’s all that the Inquisition can ask for.

Unfortunately for the Inquisition, their determination makes them difficult to persuade. After talking for more than a half hour, their leader—a short but burly man with a thick beard and thicker head—doesn’t show any signs of being moved by Caelum’s offers and certainly doesn’t look too accepting of the idea of pledging themselves to any organization.

Caelum curses this new responsibility a little; he’s never been any good at talking to people.

“Our only goal here is to fix this entire mess and help these people get their lives back. The Herald is here right now, you must have heard. She’s clearing out the demons and closing the rifts so the good people here won’t have to live in fear anymore.”

The man is, again, unmoved. He brushes off Caelum’s words, polite but firm.

“Those demons are the least of our worries right now, Ser. Sure, they’ve run people from their homes but they don’t venture too far from those holes they come out of; we can just avoid them. It’s people that’s causing our suffering. Templars and those mages will kill anyone that's caught between them and worse yet, bandits are on this land like fleas now, hunting people like lambs.”

Caelum bites his lip, at a loss knowing that he can’t argue with that after he’s seen it with his own eyes.

_I knew it had to be bandits._

“We’ve come across the work of bandits on our way here. How big of a problem are they becoming?”

Releasing a deep sigh that pretty much tells Caelum all he needs to know, the man slouches to the left and rests both of his hands on the pommel of his sword, looking out toward the mountains pensively.

“Big enough to spread fear across the entire hillside. Every other day folks come stumbling through here, fleeing with nothing but the clothes on their backs because they’d been jumped by the vermin. They’re just…taking everything, from the rich _and_ the poor, it don’t matter. Even if you don’t got nothing, they’ll find something. Even people that ain’t anywhere near trouble are run from their homes when those gangs come through. We got more than a few orphaned kids, maids come here in grief over the loss of their husbands or just empty-faced and dazed from… well… It’s bad, Ser. People are too terrified to leave the grounds, merchants here ain’t getting their wares, and hunters don’t want to risk their necks.”

Caelum waits until the man’s gaze returns to him and his mind comes back from the dreary place it had clearly drifted off to, “What’s the king say about it?”

The man’s lip pulls up and he looks like he narrowly stopped himself from spitting at their feet before he answers.

“If the bastards come willingly they’re to be turned in and tried—and no doubt see the hangman’s noose—but if they threaten your own, well you're free to kill them if you’re able. They haven’t offered any rewards for their heads but it won’t bring you any sort of trouble either. I say to the Void with all of them, carve them up and let their heads roll.”

The frustration and desperation are open in the man’s gruff voice. Caelum feels it. He thinks of the blood-soaked embrace that they left the hapless couple in and he feels this man’s plight as if it is his own.

The captain starts slow. Lowering his voice, he keeps his tone unchecked and looks the man straight in the eye, letting every terrible, vengeful emotion shine through blindingly, “We’ll do everything we can to cleanse the area of _all_ of its infections, whether it be demon or man. We’re not capturing demons to _turn them in_ so I won’t be doing that with any bandits I cross either. You have my world, we’ll happily make sure that they pay the blood price for their crimes.”

The man nods, looking at Caelum with a wicked sort of approval and saying no more. Caelum sees one final opportunity to push for his support.

“You’re all doing these people a great service. We’re not asking you to abandon them, only to align yourselves with the Inquisition. We can help you protect them, provide arms, supplies, support, compensation, aid your training… if you only count yourselves among Inquisition forces. Let us all help each other.”

The man is silent for a long time, staring again out toward the mountains in thought. Caelum chews his lip, trying to hold onto his patience until finally the man nods several times before shifting his eyes to meet the captain’s gaze.

“Aye, that sounds like a fair trade if I’ve ever heard one. We’ll stand under your banner and endeavor to do it some good. Thank you, Ser, and may the Maker give you his favor.”

 

⧫

 

The trio wanders into the tavern eager to settle down for the day and take a moment to relax. Caelum expects to find the Herald and her company, but as he sweeps the room the only familiar face he finds is Tethras sitting with a few refugees.

He hovers around the door, probably looking like a dolt, but the storyteller scrapes at his patience on the best of days and right now, with his nerves already at their breaking point, he’d rather avoid losing his temper and flipping a table.

Kayleigh is already making his way over and Isaac promptly moves to abandon him as well, eyeing a young, shapely woman sitting primly at a table near the back, resolutely ignoring the drunkard trying to talk to her over her shoulder.

Caelum sighs and grabs his friend before he can make off.

“Don’t be long. Meet us in the village center an hour before sundown. For the love of Andraste’s grace, please don’t make me go looking for you again.”

Isaac just wiggles his eyebrows and smacks Caelum’s shoulder, the hard lines of his face thawing to make room for a charming smile as he crosses the room and shoves himself between the girl and the drunk.

Alone and too weary to turn around and take himself somewhere else, Caelum drags his feet over and sits on the furthest end of the next table, avoiding looking toward the rogue and quietly thanking the barmaid that promptly sets a drink down in front of him.

He clenches both hands around the mug and grunts when he’s greeted with a boisterous, “Aye, Captain!” Sinking deeper into his seat, he leans over his drink, stares flatly at the table and listens to the chatter around him. Luckily, Kayleigh grabs the author’s attention before he can try again to grab Caelum’s.

“You here on your own, Varric? Where’s the Herald gone off to? And the Seeker and that elf? Weren’t you traveling all together?”

Tethras doesn’t need much more encouragement than that. He twists around toward the young soldier, pouring him a drink and tossing his own back before pouring himself another.

“They’re back at camp. This whole journey ended up being pretty uneventful, all things considered. We closed a rift or two, fought a few apostates—haven’t seen any Templars yet—spoke to the Chantry Mother, bartered with the horsemaster, and collected a damn impressive amount of elfroot. Even had time to spare for Nyla to ride through some obstacle courses with Dennet’s daughter and lead a runaway druffalo home like a baby duck.”

Kayleigh snorts a laugh into his mug, cheeks already rosy and arms heavy on the table—he's only halfway through his first drink. Concern mists Caelum’s thoughts as watches the glazed look come over the teenager’s eyes. As always, he speaks with more harsh, jagged edges than he intends to.

“Don't drink too much, Kayleigh. We still have to get to camp and I won't babysit you when you’re too drunk to walk a straight line."

The young soldier instantly sobers up at the reprimand that sits on the tip of the captain’s tongue. Brushing a thumb over the rim of his mug, he lets his long, dirty blonde hair fall over his face as he mumbles into his drink, “I won't, Captain. I'll just have a few.”

The crestfallen tone sparks a twitch of remorse in his chest. It’s too easy to forget that soldiers like Kayleigh are still so young. The ease in which they’re able to find simple pleasures in their lives needn’t be tainted and stripped away yet.

The captain swallows, intent on making an attempt to smooth down the rigid tone and temper the natural growl in his voice, but he bites it back when Kayleigh moves to another subject and warily sends another question Tethras's way, a question that Caelum has been all too curious about himself.

“You didn’t have any trouble with the bandits then?”

The dwarf sets his mug back down on the table with a thump, tilting his head a little and staring at Kayleigh in mild confusion.

“Trouble? No, can’t say that we’ve had any _trouble_ with them. We saw one group and they sure as shit saw us but they just kept moving. I assumed they got a peak of the Seeker’s scowl and decided not to try their luck.”

Caelum’s brows furrow upon hearing that, his mug lowering back to the table as he stares off at nothing in deep thought, trying to make sense of how Tethras—who is admittedly as sharp as he is annoying—and Seeker Pentaghast, of all people, could be oblivious to the outlaw issue that's arguably the primary concern for the people here.

_That doesn’t make sense. They’ve been all over the region. How could they not have run into any bandits or at least seen the aftermath they leave behind?_

Before he can dive too far into his own thoughts, a high-pitched giggle draws his attention away from the conversation and over to the next table over where Isaac, despite having all the room in the world on the bench, is sitting shoulder to shoulder with the slender young woman with dark-rimmed eyes and red painted lips.

He groans and slouches further in his seat, familiar enough by now with his friend's stress-relief methods.

“Goodness! But it’s so dangerous out there!”

The girl’s voice is purposefully breathy as she leans into him as if to whisper in his ear, but her words are clear and brazen. She clings to his arm as if there’s any chance of them losing each other in the spacious room. Isaac, as Caelum has heard a thousand times, plays it up, speaking with exaggerated emotion and grandeur.

“Yes, it _is_ terribly dangerous. Packs of wolves so large that they can outnumber a village three to one, bears as ferocious as dragons, _demons_ the likes of which should only exist in nightmares. It’s a monstrous trek, but since it has led me to the company of a stunning woman such as yourself I’ll gladly endure it a thousand times.”

The girl giggles again, tossing her curled hair over her shoulder, staring up at him from under darkened eyelashes as she slides closer until she’s all but sitting on his lap. Gasping, she takes one of his hands in both of hers and holds it against her chest, right over her breasts, as she leans into him with wide, amorous eyes.

“And you fought them all? Oh, how exciting! Tell me, please.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Their faces are so close that they must be breathing right into each other’s mouths. “But have mercy on me, please. After such a perilous journey my nerves are fraught. Maybe we could go somewhere more quiet or… private? To ease my suffering as I recount the battles...”

“Oh, of course, Ser Knight, of course. Come with me.”

Caelum watches her pull Isaac from the bench, still holding him with both hands. She doesn’t move to make room for him as he stands, so their bodies press together as he steps away from the table, shamelessly making their intentions quite clear.

_Maker, just leave already before we all end up sick._

Averting his gaze, he stares into the bottom of his mug and resists the urge to throw it at Isaac’s head as he’s led out the door.

A full mug is slid in front of him, spilling out over the sides a little, and he looks up to see Tethras passing drinks to the others before bracing an elbow heavily against the table, leaning toward Caelum with a smirk and gesturing with his drink toward the door where Isaac and the girl just sashayed out.

“Well, ain’t he just a son of a bitch?”

Hesitating for a moment, reluctant to do anything that encourages friendship with the irksome rogue, Caelum’s staunch stoicism dissolves when he catches sight of Kayleigh’s apprehensive stare. With a sigh, he takes hold of the offered ale.

“Yeah. He is.”

Then they drink in silence.

 

⧫⧫

 

They start heading to camp right as it reaches dusk, their gait relaxed from their drinks, and sated desire in Isaac’s case. The camp is only an hour away; they don’t truly plan on running into any trouble.

As it happens, trouble steps right in their path. Six men ghost out of the dark forest, swaggering toward them with vile smiles and false cheer. They spread out, filling the road, blocking the way forward, and leaving no room for anything other than a fight.

“'Ello, boys,” the obvious leader of the pack steps forward, fiddling casually with the pommel of his sword and flashing his teeth in a leer. “Just takin’ a stroll, are we? Enjoyin’ the night? It’s lovely, ain’t it?”

Tethras is quick to speak up, effortlessly keeping any aggression out of his voice and acting as if being accosted by armed men in the forest at night is nothing to become alarmed over.

“Can’t argue with you there. It _is_ a gorgeous night. The kind that would be a crime to waste, so you’ll have to forgive us for not wanting to be kept.”

The bandit leader steps forward, still smiling nastily, “A gorgeous end to a gorgeous day. It’s really put me in quite a mood,” he draws his sword, holding it at his side loosely and taking another half step toward them. “So in honor of the beauty of the day, we'll give you the chance to hand over your coin and valuables and live to see another.”

_The easy pickings these past few weeks have made them cocky. We’ll fix that right up._

Caelum scoffs, taking a confident step closer and closing the gap between them even more. “You'll give us a chance? You must think I carry this sword on my belt for decoration.”

He draws the blade, pointing it toward them horizontally, letting it gleam against the reddening sky. “I don’t. But fortune shines on you because I happen to be in quite a mood myself. So how's about this: I'll let you try to take my coin and if you're still in possession of your fingers thirty seconds from now, I'll hand it over and allow it to bring you joy in your final moments before I cut you down.”

The rest of the bandit pack draws their swords as their leader widens his stance and brings his sword up, jaunty mask slipping from his face and revealing an ugly scowl and acrid eyes.

Caelum doesn't move but he hears a sword being drawn behind him; he instinctively knows it's Isaac even before his familiar voice speaks.

“Well, what'll it be, gentlemen? I know you bandits aren’t known for your supreme decision-making skills but this lovely night is wasting.”

Without any more prompting, the bandits spring forward as one, clearly accustomed to rushing their victims and using shock and fear to gain their advantage. It doesn’t work in their favor this time around. One man doesn’t even get his sword completely up before he gasps and collapses to the ground with three crossbow bolts stuck in his chest.

The leader comes at Caelum immediately, throwing himself into his swings and matching him blow for blow, swords scraping and bouncing off of each other with raucous shrieks. The man is skilled, his feet move expertly through the dance and counter the captain’s movements with a steady confidence, but he's a fraction slower.

Caelum steps in close, taking away the man's space to maneuver, and brings his sword up and into a downward swing, forcing the bandit to bring his blade up with both hands to withstand the impressive blow. Caelum takes the opportunity to release one hand from his hilt and slam his armored fist into the bandit’s mouth, splitting his lips open in a burst of red. The man recoils and stumbles, stunned.

Feeling a shift in the air at his back, he briskly kicks out, driving his boot into the leader's knee, hyper-extending it backward and making him howl and tumble the rest of the way down.

Immediately, Caelum pivots and ducks under the swing that tries to catch him from behind. Springing up and carrying his blade in a powerful upward swing, he slashes the second man from groin to throat. The sword falls to the ground as the man lurches back, clutching his spouting neck with both hands just as Caelum rears back to drive his blade through his gut. It happens in the span of an instant, but the life is already nearly drained from the man when Caelum pulls the sword free and twirls back around toward the leader still struggling to his feet behind him.

He thrusts his blade deep below his sternum. The man sputters and chokes, clutching the steel sticking out of his chest, not feeling his hands being cut open and running crimson down his arms. He looks up at Caelum with dark, aghast eyes, and Caelum stares back as he grabs ahold of the bandit’s shoulder and shoves his blade in deeper, pulling a half-formed gasp from the man's lips before he goes limp. Caelum releases him, letting the body slump back to slide off his sword and fall against the stained path.

It’s silent behind him. He looks around to see the corpses of the rest of the bandits scattered across the road, his company none the worse for wear.

Isaac squats to wipe his blade on a dead man’s shirt as Tethras looks around in slightly exaggerated bewilderment.

“Shit… I guess that must have been that ‘trouble’ you were asking about earlier, huh, Kay?”

“You guess right.”

“Enough,” Caelum doesn’t want to linger, it’s been an exhausting day and he fears it will take him hours to fall asleep tonight, “Come on, let's move them off the road.”

Tethras manages to keep up his commentary as they drag the bandits off the road, taking their bags and pouches of loot and leaving the bodies in the forest to hopefully be eaten by animals.

The fight, the victory, and the criminal blood spilled on the road has done a fine job of lifting Kayleigh and Isaac’s spirits, enlivening them in a way that not even cold drinks and warm beds could fully accomplish. They’re men reared in violence; it’s become a part of their nature. It can’t be helped. All that matters, as far as Caelum is concerned, is that they point their blades at the right people.

“It really _must_ be the Seeker’s scowl then,” Varric continues the moment they’re back on the road, ”the bandits from earlier didn't even try to approach us.”

Kayleigh roughly shoves the dwarf with a laugh. “It's a good thing we're marching back to Haven with you lot then. I'm all for killing bandits but I ain't too keen on having them jump out at us the whole way.”

“Never fear, Kayleigh, I'll protect you,” Isaac grins that gleaming, unreserved grin that unfailingly cools Caelum’s constantly simmering temper and melts some of the ice that fills his chest.

Kayleigh’s smile is nearly as bright. “Yeah? So you can spin a tale about it right into another pair of lacey smalls? Not a chance, you whoreson.”

Their laughter is a welcome companion as they continue up the road.

 

⧫⧫

 

There’s someone new when they arrive at the camp, bloodied and exhausted. A man with a staff at his side and an obnoxious mustache.

“Ah, hello there.”

_And an obnoxious voice to match._

He doesn’t know if it’s his particularly foul mood or his overall asocial personality, but he really has no desire to meet any new people. The ebullient mood that came over the group was a welcome distraction, but as they drew nearer to camp, anxiety burrowed squarely in the icy caverns of Caelum’s chest.

He doesn’t want to dream of the couple. He doesn’t want to see the woman’s despaired blue eyes when he shuts the world out. He knows he’s powerless though. So Caelum offers a throaty grunt in lieu of a greeting and throws himself down by the fire and into the offered pot of stew.

The stranger lifts an eyebrow, scrupulously groomed and polished, and looks sidelong at Lady Trevelyan. “Pleasant company in this Inquisition. I’d hate to sound too eager—it’s terribly unattractive—but I’m just _dying_ to meet the rest of them.”

She laughs, brushing her tousled, raven bangs out of her eyes and leans against him to stage whisper, “Don’t think on it too much, Dorian, he doesn’t much like anyone.”

“Dorian,” Kayleigh looks up from where he’s uselessly trying to scrub dried blood from his trousers, “I take it you're the extra "Vinty" Vint Varric was talking about. What’s got you mixed up with us, if I may ask?”

“My wealth of knowledge and intellect, of course.” The Vint is quick, appearing poised and unruffled by their grungy appearance and rowdy banter as he holds himself with the decorum that’s more fitting of a grand banquet rather than a dirty log by an open fire.

Caelum can already tell that this man will be yet another name on the long list of people that he can’t stand.

“Is that right, Seeker?” The captain turns to Seeker Pentaghast, who’s been quietly eating through her stew and not interested in paying them any attention—Solas is predictably absent; the mage is even less social than he is.

She finishes the last of her supper before answering, handing the bowl off to a scout with a nod of thanks and brushing herself off as she gets to her feet. “Lord Pavus has brought forth some… interesting information. Information that may be in the Inquisition’s best interest to explore, so he will be accompanying us back to Haven. That is _all_ that will be discussed right now. I will take last watch. Goodnight.”

They all watch her go, keeping their questions to themselves until Kayleigh looks over at the Herald, finally noticing the small collection of rings and necklaces that she’s sorting through.

“What’cha got there, Herald?”

“Some goods we found along the way. And I’ve already told you what my name is and it’s not _Herald._ ”

She grumbles about being called by her first name so often that Caelum’s continued use of her title is now partially out of spite.

“ _Found_?” Kayleigh’s face goes slack in disbelief, lips pursing as he watches their Herald with blatant skepticism, “You _found_ gems and fine jewelry?”

She looks up at him with a smirk, shrugging haughtily and jerking hair out of her face, “I tell ya, you’d be amazed at what people leave behind.”

Caelum nearly drops his soup as the realization of what she’s saying hits him, bringing back the anger that’s been hanging off of him all day, “You went into people’s homes? You stole from them?”

“I found it! It’s all been abandoned—”

“Locked up in chests and jewelry boxes, I imagine, the best people could do when they’ve been forced to flee without warning. They weren’t abandoned, those people are meant to return home; we’re supposed to be _helping_ them return to their homes. Not robbing them blind when they’re—"

”Why are you such a cad?” With quick, jerky movement born from rapidly growing irritation, she scoops her stolen goods up and shoves it all into a pouch before turning on him with a fierce glare. “Nevermind, I already know. I've seen too many men like you and your problem ain’t too hard to recognize. Pent-up sexual desire coming out as aggression, right? It frustrates you to have to be in the company of a woman that _doesn’t_ get you off?”

Taken aback, Caelum’s lip curls into a sneer and disdain froths in his tone, “You flatter yourself, _honorable Herald_. Even if I _was_ struck with desire, I’d sooner mount a half-dead nug.”

There’s smothered laughter all around them as the men duck their heads and snicker into their bowls and mugs. The Vint looks between them with amusement swimming openly in his ashen eyes. The Herald’s eyes roll before she shoves a middle finger toward Caelum, pushing herself up using Lord Pavus’s shoulder.

“You do that, Captain. Well, it’s late and I’m beat. Have a good night, fellas. You turnin’ in, Dorian? You can share my tent.”

The mage looks around at the group for a moment, apparently deciding that they’re not enticing enough company, covered in blood and sweat as they are, and nods at the Herald, “Yes, I’ll come along. It’s been quite an exciting day and a man of my quality needs his rest. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

The camp falls silent in their absence, only the scraping of spoons in their bowls and the crackling of the wood in the fire breaking the stillness in the air.

Tethras is the first to speak up, to the surprise of precisely no one.

“You’re on a roll this evening, Captain. I think of it as a personal accomplishment that I’m among the few that have managed to avoid pissing you off tonight.”

Caelum puts his bowl aside and starts to work on stripping off his red sprayed armor, getting down to his underclothes before lazily responding to the dwarf, too tired to add his usual bite.

“You’re getting pretty close to it, Tethras.”

The captain leans back against the logs, stretches his legs out and enjoys the warmth of the fire against his bare skin as he listens to the rogue laugh good-naturedly before turning to Isaac and prodding for details about his evening tryst with the young beauty in the tavern.

Caelum tunes most of it out—he’s heard these stories more than enough to know them by heart now—and just listens to the lively, excited voices of Isaac and Kayleigh, so different from their bleak states this morning, and hopes it’s enough to keep the nightmares at bay as he drifts to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading and/or commenting! :)


	6. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belatedly noticed a few technical errors with this chapter and had to re do it, so sorry for any confusion. It's all fixed now (hopefully lol) so enjoy :)

_ He is lost.  _

_ The trees are all the same, black shapes against a black stretch of nothing. Maybe he just can’t see the differences. The darkness of the moonless forest threatens to smother him, to engulf him as it has engulfed the world.  _

_ It has already begun to claim his senses.  _

_ Sight is the first casualty as the darkness presses heavier on him. The black seeps through the forest like spilled ink, soaking into the dim shadows and saturating the air until it's only a single, solid, impenetrable darkness.  _

_ Sound is lost as the gloom captures nature's hymn. The blackened tresses of the trees writhe violently in the wind, but emit no familiar rustles and whistles. The leaves don’t crunch beneath his boots. Even his breathing, his final comfort, falls deaf on his ears.  _

_ Panic fills all the void and he runs. Branches slash against his face, roots catch and yank at his feet, trying to drag him into the darkness, but still he runs. The faceless trees become more dense, packing together and baring his way like a blockade.  _

_ Eyes wide and futile, he feels his way through the trees, ducking and twisting to shove himself through any open space that his hands find.  _

_ Soon, touch leaves him as well and he’s grasping at nothing.  _

_ Then he’s falling. _

_ Like a strike of lightning, his back connects savagely with firm ground and the world floods back to him. His choked, splintered breathing is the first sound to fill the air.  _

_ Sight returns in a burst of color and light. Lustrous, floral hills stretch high from the ground surrounding him, cradling, shielding, and looking like home. _

_ His eyes roam the mounds, drifting up and up, pulled by what his hills are reaching for. The sky, no longer black but deep, fathomless blue, almost steals his breath away again. The enthralling array of silver stars and unimaginable depths has one successful theft, however, as it momentarily liberates him of his fears. _

_ He wants to stay here forever in the hills beneath the luminous constellations of his home, enjoying a peace that he thought had been sacrificed long ago.  _

_ Obtrusively, sensation demands his attention and he’s suddenly aware of the wetness that accompanies the hardness against his back. It’s thick and warm and clings to his skin like a paste.  _

_ Unable to turn away from the stars, he raises his palms up to his eyes. The peace ruptures viciously. His breath hitches once, then once more before shattering into whimpers and breathless pants. The blood on his hands shine brightly under the brilliance of the sky. _

_ He sits up listlessly, holding his hands away from him as if he can separate himself from them and the stains they carry, and looks around. _

_ Bodies fill the valley, covering the ground where he use to find solace, crushing the lush grass that once cushioned him as he rolled down these hills with peals of laughter. Bodies twisted and tangled together as far as the dale takes them. _

_ They encircle him, dressed in humble trousers and tunics, the honest villagers that he didn't reach in time when the rifts opened. Sporting recognizable coats and armor lay all of the valorous soldiers he left on the battlefield at the Temple. In the arms of their beaten and murdered husbands lays dozens of women in hauntingly familiar dresses, sliced down the middle, with blood on their thighs and bruises across their throats. _

_ They’re all the same. All copies of each other that multiply the more he tries to look away.  _

_ They’re all the same, bar two.  _

_ A fractured cry tumbles out of the constricted confines of his chest. Sitting upright against the slope across from him is the corpse of a man, tall, broad with a shock of blonde curls and a woman, nearly as tall, with red hair boasting waves as smooth as the hills. Their eyes are closed, but he knows the man’s are a sunny gold and the woman’s are a shimmering green. _

_ Tears spill over his cheek, as thick as the blood he sits in. He scrambles to his knees, wanting to reach for them, but the wind suddenly howls with a hundred voices, accusing, damning voices of the dead, mocking him, his duty, and his failures. _

_ “Captain. Captain. Captain.” _

 

✦

 

“Captain. Captain Rutherford.”

Caelum jolts and lurches up, panting and clutching at his tunic, his heart pounding against his fist. Bracing mountain air pricks at his skin but the shadow of the nightmare clings to him, shrouding his mind with a thick fog. His chest constricts, breath rasping as the lingering weight of the darkness presses against him. 

The grounding scent of burning kindling breaks through the darkness. He sits there gasping and digging his nails into his chest, inhaling deep drags of smokey air until reality comes into focus. The woods around him are bathed in the moon’s light and alive with the chirping of insects and rustling of leaves in the wind.

He drags a hand through his hair, damp and sticking to his skin with cold sweat, and over his face. It’s moist with a thin coat of sweat but blessedly free of tears and he thanks the Maker for small mercies, although a knot still sits oppressively in his chest. He fearfully turns his palms up, ignoring the way they tremble, and welcomes the small puff of relief when he only sees his pale skin and old scars.

Remembering what pulled him back to consciousness as his mind slowly catches up with the present, he looks around and is too disoriented to suppress his flinch of surprise when he sees Solas sitting an arm’s length away, watching him with a careful expression.

A brief standstill ensues as Caelum stares at him in open bewilderment until the final pieces fall into place. A swell of mortification takes shape in his belly, molding with anguish and twisting his stomach. Averting his gaze, he licks his lips and tries to speak, but a hoarse croak is all he can manage. The elf turns away for a moment, reaching into a bag beside him before turning back and wordlessly offering a flask.

Again, to his shame, Caelum flinches. The apostate is unperturbed by the reaction, patiently keeping the flask held out with a faint smile in his eyes that almost reaches his mouth. “It’s only water, I assure you. Please drink.”

“I’m sorry…I….” Trying to swallow around his dry throat, Caelum curls his hands around his knees, inhibited, and stares deeply into the fire. He can feel Solas watching him; he can’t face him. He’s too ashamed to display his weakness in his shaking hands and fear-tinged eyes, so he keeps his teeth clenched and eyes locked on the flames.

Solas doesn’t break the silence, he doesn’t shift closer or ask questions. He observes and understands. Wordlessly, the thin container is placed against the log near Caelum’s leg and the mage looks away, staring out towards the midnight forest.

After a full minute of buzzing insects and crackling wood, the silence between the men grows larger and the captain steadily feels like he’s growing smaller. Everything he is and everything he could be crumbles as this mage bears witness to the brittle man that resides inside of the armor. 

He speaks without prompting, without looking away from the flames, but he can’t curb the need to defend himself and rebuild the image has been undoubtedly destroyed in the elf’s eyes. “I’m fine. It was only a dream.”  

Solas glances meaningfully at Caelum’s still shaking hands, face still impressively neutral. “Yes, but too often people attempt to understate the power of dreams. What is real or unreal matters little when the effects are genuine all the same.”

“I’m fine.” He says again, partly to himself this time, “It was nothing.”

The mage offers no response, only more thoughtful silence as he chooses not to press the troubled captain, but his shrewd stare doesn’t change, it stays on Caelum, clear and wise, until he is forced to look away.

Since the first day he met him, Caelum often feels like he’s teetering on some unknown edge when he’s around the elf. Solas has a gaze that seems to go beyond sight, leaving the captain feeling exposed and vulnerable under his stare in a way that he hasn’t experienced since he was a young boy under inspection from his handlers during his training days. 

There is also the decidedly shallow fact that Caelum flounders stupidly whenever he’s forced to address the man, frequently choking on the name and stuttering it out awkwardly. Solas is the only name they’ve been given, no surnames or titles. He is only Solas and Caelum isn’t often fond of first names and the intimacy they carry. 

The captain shuts his eyes for a moment, letting his world go dark as he steeps in chagrin. Solas’ benevolence feels a lot like pity. 

He gives in, takes the offered flask and sips modestly but the cool relief of the liquid washing over his sore throat brings a feeling of bliss that he wasn’t prepared for. His head tips back greedily, draining the container and clearing the thick saliva that sticks to his mouth.

Acutely aware of the mage’s gaze still on him, he wipes a hand across his mouth and, feeling infinitely more stable, sets his shoulders, takes a quiet breath, and puts all of his effort into restoring the strength in his voice. He mostly succeeds when only one, subtle tremor remains. 

“Thank you, Ser, for your kindness. I’m grateful to you. I can finish up the watch, you should get some extra sleep while you still can.”

The elf slightly raises an eyebrow. “You have already completed your watch, you need your rest as well.”

“I’m up now anyway. I’ll take over, it’s okay. Get an extra hour or two. I won’t be going back to sleep even if I tried.”

“One doesn’t need to be asleep to be resting, Captain.” Solas adjusts his position, looking away and settling back to stare straight ahead, signaling an end to the conversation. “I intend to finish the remainder of my watch.”

With a sigh of acknowledged defeat, Caelum slumps back against the logs, accepting the returned silence and the unexpected comfort it now carries.

The shaking in his hands has subsided but now they twitch with the aversion of being idle. He laces his fingers together over his stomach and surreptitiously watches Solas from beneath his eyelashes. 

The mage is almost serene in the way he sits with his back straight and legs folded neatly in front of him, taking deep, even breaths and staring into the forest with an unbreakable gaze as if he can hear it's whispered secrets. 

Unwittingly, Caelum’s breathing slows to match the apostate’s, meditatively inhaling and exhaling in time with the other man’s chest and, in spite of his assertion that sleep was beyond his reach, he slips quietly back into slumber.

 

✦

 

“Up and at ‘em, Callywampus!”

Caelum returns to the waking world by a voice that is much too close and a hand moving roughly through his hair, jostling his head back and forth. Blinking awake until his vision clears, he immediately wants to roll over and pursue the receding comfort of dreamless sleep when Isaac’s grinning face fills his view, his chestnut eyes bright and his matching hair falling naturally into place over his forehead.

With a growl that pathetically fades into a groan, he shoves a hand against his friend’s face and pushes him back before hauling himself upright, popping his back and rubbing at the ache in his neck. 

“Getting old, Cal?” Isaac ruffles his disheveled curls again before bounding out of reach of Caelum’s half hearted swipe with a laugh and his usual vibrant, morning energy.

“Keep talking and you'll be running the lake track with the recruits when we get back.” The captain snaps at him but in the depths of his mind he can’t deny that his body is a lot less forgiving about sleeping against hard logs than it used to be.

Tethras, uninvited and unwelcome, decides to join the banter, paying no heed to how quickly the captain’s mood is known to sour at the sound of his voice. “Look at that, hasn’t even been up for a minute and he’s already in full Captain form. You work too hard. Kinda reminds me of someone I know…”

Caelum’s tired scowl tightens into an icy glower.  _ “He’s _ already on my final nerve and I actually like him so I'd stay quiet if I were y _ ou,  _ Tethras.”

Cutting his gaze away from the rogue’s raised palms and impish smile and ignoring Isaac’s flamboyant, “Aww, Cally! I knew you were sweet on me!” he heaves himself to his feet, shutting his eyes against the spell of vertigo that hits him and scratching at the stubble across his cheeks.

Fatigue hangs off of him, urging him back down to the ground, but he twists out the tension in his back, stretches out his shoulders and forces his body to shed the grip of sleep and accept the new day.

It’s not only sleep that clutches at him though. A gloomy presence remains on the edges of his mind, waiting for another moment of weakness. He pushes it back until he can convince himself that it’s nothing but a shadow. He can’t break again. Over the years he’s learned to put himself back together with flawless efficiency, but he can’t break here where there is so much more to lose.

He sweeps his gaze across the camp, surveying everyone in various states of readiness beneath the orange and magenta hues of the dawn sky. 

Tethras and Solas sit side by side on the edge of the treeline, heads bowed over their weapons as the rogue fusses over his crossbow and the mage adjusts the leather wrappings of his staff. Tethras’ lips are moving, but despite how impossible it is for Caelum to read Solas and determine if he’s listening or not, he would bet his entire coin purse that the conversation that’s taking place is between the dwarf and his Bianca.

Kayleigh sits across the fire, hands outstretched to soak up the heat of the blaze and only technically awake by the looks of it as his eyes open and close a little too slowly to still be considered a blink, but his armor is on properly and his sword is at his side and that’s more than Caelum can say for himself. 

Next to the drowsy soldier sits Ser Pavus, looking like he’s never missed a moment of sleep in his life as he fiddles with his hair while staring at his reflection in a small, levitating mirror. Caelum bristles at the brazen use of magic, a spike of adrenaline rushing through his blood that has him instinctively wanting to reach for his sword and have it at the ready. 

He shakes off the compulsion.

_ I am not a Templar anymore. Seeker Pentaghast approved of him, I will not question her. _

The thought leads him to a new one. “Where are the Seeker and the Herald?”

He lifts his voice, addressing the question to the entire camp. Isaac and Tethras start up at the same time and as they both break off and stare at each other in amusement, Kayleigh steals the opportunity to speak. “They went down to the river, should be back soon though. I mean, I think they will. They’ve been gone almost an hour now. Whatever… lady stuff they’re doing shouldn’t take much longer, right?”

“They went to the river  _ alone _ ? But bandits…”

“I tried to tell them, Cap.” Isaac drops down next to him in front of the fire, holding his hands out toward the flame, “Herald insisted that there was nothing to worry about. I told her there’s plenty to worry about but Lady Seeker said they would be fine looking after themselves.” The brunette shrugs, turning his eyes up at him with a solemn expression that grimly contrasts his previous mood. “Who am I to argue with a Seeker?”

That drip of doubt and suspicion that lingers around his thoughts of their Herald perceptively grows into a steady, viscous flow. A spike of anger pokes at his chest as he remembers her casual dismissal of any wrongdoing as she sorted through goods stolen from the homes of defenseless refugees. 

_ Of course she’ll try to downplay the severity of bandit exploits when she’s no better, taking advantage of the unfortunate.  _

The nightmare presses on his mind, branding the faces of the dead on his conscience and carrying a weight that could drive him to his knees in repentance. He made promises to all of those people, asked forgiveness from them all and vowed to fight for all of their taken lives.

Fear snakes its way into his heart, unfurling in his blood until it’s all he feels and giving life to the shadow that stalks his mind. There is so much red on his hands, so many bodies in his valley. How much more can he take? Between demons, Templars, mages, and bandits, how many more will he fail?

His stomach churns. He clears his throat, running his tongue over his teeth before turning to spit and catching the eye of the Tevinter mage. Irritation foams around self-control when the Vint’s lip curls up in distaste as he watches Caelum hawk and spit again.

“I’m sorry,” the lack of remorse in his tone as evident as he can make it, “does my behavior repulse you,  _ Lord _ Pavus?”

The mage’s lips seamlessly slip into a benign smile. “No, I’m not repelled—the proper word is  _ repelled _ , not  _ repulsed _ —I’m actually  _ not _ repelled by your behavior. I’m more than aware of you Southerner’s preoccupation with slobbering dogs and all that relates to them, so I’m not at all taken aback by the strange and various ways that you imitate them.”

Caelum’s face grows hot, annoyed and embarrassed by the insult and the correction in equal parts. “Well I'm glad you've gotten so comfortable, I just hope you don't end up getting bitten.”

“Easy, Cal.” Isaac murmurs to him, lightly bumping his knee and lifting his eyebrows, as is his custom whenever Caelum is beginning to lose his temper prematurely.

He grinds his teeth together, feeling his face twitch with the impulse to deepen his scowl, and settles down next to Isaac, trying his best not to audibly huff as he goes. 

Isaac flashes a proud smile and receives a grimace in return before Caelum leans over to drag his effects toward him. He catches Solas’ eye across camp and apprehension blends with the irritation. 

_ Will he speak of last night? Will he inform the Seeker or Cullen? Will he tell them I’m unstable. Unfit? Inadequate for my position? Maybe he already has.  _

He hauls his armor around himself and begins putting himself back together as he’s done countless times before, throwing all of his concentration into it to suppress the desire to both flee from the elven mage’s critical stare and leaping across the fire as the Tevinter mage smirks and turns away with his nose in the air as if he won some kind of unspoken battle.

The captain tugs on the laces of his boots with more force than necessary, with only high quality, diligent upkeep, and divine luck keeping the ties from snapping, and silently throws every curse that he’s ever heard at the Vint and all of his pleas at the elf. 

The march to Haven is going to be the longest of his life.

 

✦

 

Caelum and the Lady Seeker walk side by side in a silent march, guarding their front as the Herald and both mages follow in the middle and Isaac, Kaleigh, and Tethras bringing up the rear.

It's a secure formation, even if it does make his palms sweat from the nervous anxiety that the Seeker’s presence often invokes in him. Several times he glances at her and takes a deep breath with a series of questions on his tongue begging to be voiced, before nerves get the best of him and he deflates and returns his gaze to the road ahead of them.

On his fourth aborted attempt, the Seeker candidly takes hold of the matter herself.

“Does something trouble you, Captain?”

“Hmm? Oh. Trouble me? No. I wouldn’t say that exactly. It's just…” He fumbles around for the right words, mindful and anxious of his chronic ability to end up saying things the wrong way.

“I'm merely…puzzled about something. In your reports, you made no mention of the bandits and yesterday at Redcliffe, Ser Tethras was oblivious when the matter was brought up, he didn’t even think of it as a problem. I don’t understand. The bandits are—from the militia’s words—the biggest concern for these people. I’ve seen it myself in the short time that I’ve been here. How…” He stalls, trailing off with apprehension and spends a beat fretting over how to frame his question without any accusatory or critical slants. “How could you not have noticed?”

Caelum suppresses a wince as the question comes out judgmentally despite his best efforts, but if the Seeker took any offense she doesn’t show it, her face remains severe and focused, staring straight ahead as they march.

“It is not that they have escaped my notice, Captain. I have also witnessed a few sightings of them during this expedition. Bandits are a part of life nearly everywhere, especially during times such as this. It was not necessary to include their existence in the reports; they are inevitable and expected.  They were here before war and they will be here after. Commander Cullen has enough experience to know this, he does not need to be told and it cannot be our focus while we have much larger priorities.” 

He resists the urge to rub at his neck when a frustrated heat creeps up and hovers uncomfortably around his face. Again, Caelum hesitates, wary of being argumentative but unable to let the subject drop. 

“I understand that… but this isn’t common thieves taking advantage of the chaos, it’s more than that. The bandit’s are the  _ biggest  _ problem the people are directly dealing with. They can stay out of the way of the demons and even the fighting between the apostates and Templars, but they can't stay out of the way of the bandits. Right now, they can only flee and hide. Half of the refugees in Redcliffe are there because their homes and villages have been invaded. They aren’t just happening upon them on the road, they’re being hunted.”

She is silent for a moment, watching the soldier with a sharp, indecipherable gaze. Her voice is quieter when she finally speaks, firm but tactfully muted to temper any sting from the discord. “My intent is not to doubt you, Captain, but we have been here for weeks now and have seen nothing that speaks of bandits being as large of a problem as you speak.”

“We’ve been here for  _ one  _ week and have seen it twice already. I still can’t understand how the real extent of it hasn’t crossed your path but truly, Seeker, they are much more than glimpses and small problems. The people are entirely overwhelmed. They’re being raped and murdered or left with nothing. Even if our  _ priorities _ are dealt with, many of those people will never be able to return to their lives because they have nothing left to return to after the outlaws get ahold of them.” Flecks of woeful desperation trickle into his voice. He catches himself immediately, dropping and smoothing out his tone but he knows the Seeker heard it just as quickly and clearly as he did. 

“You carry a lot of passion about this.” Still studying him with that astute stare, she hums lowly in her throat in a way that Caelum would like to recognize as approval, “I do trust you, Captain. I trust your judgment. I will look into this more closely. Leliana can put her people on it and no doubt uncover anything there is to be found. If there is a way, we will help where we can. I give you my word.”

The cumbersome tension lifts in one, wondrous instant. He smiles, small but genuine and rare, and runs a hand through his curls in a burst of relief. “Thank you, Seeker. I know there is already more than enough to deal with but—”

“Hey!” Startled, they both stop short, hands poised over the hilts of their swords, and turn back to the Herald. At a stop in the middle of the road, she jerks her head towards another path through the forest. “Let’s cut through here.”

Seeker Pentaghast steps forward, peering down the forest path then back to the Herald with a hint of scepticism. “Are you certain?”

“Yeah. Well I mean, I’m not sure but I think I sense another rift over this way. My mark hand is feeling weird. We should probably go have a look, right? And this path will still get us on a road to Haven either way. Let’s go, we can’t just ignore it.”

Without waiting for any agreements or arguments, she moves toward the new path with Ser Pavus and Solas at her side, already resuming whatever conversation they were holding before the interruption. 

Feeling a knot twist in his stomach, Caelum shares a look with the Seeker, who furrows her brows and belatedly releases the grip on her sword. He catches Isaac’s gaze from the other end of the road and is just barely able to make out the short shrug that the lieutenant gives. The Seeker starts to move and with no other choice, the rest of them follow, cutting across the road and vanishing into the forest.

They march onward, following the Herald and her senses. They reach the road outside of Haven by the middle of the fourth day. They don’t encounter even a spark of glowing green.

 

✦

 

Caelum stands on the outskirts of the training field, chewing a hunk of druffalo jerky and flitting his eyes through each recruit, noting their strengths, weaknesses, and areas that need just a little extra attention. 

_ He leaves his left side exposed too often. She is much stronger than she looks, she needs to learn to use that to her advantage. He’s slow to regain his footing after he dodges. His parries are near perfect, just needs to be quicker. She’s unbalanced, she’ll end up being knocked over. _

Plans and schedules start to map themselves out on their own accord. Focused training groups and sparring partners start to organize and line up in a neat order in his mind. This is good. This he can handle. 

He was given the reception that he was expecting when the Commander opened the gates to greet them when they arrived at the village.

Cullen welcomed the others back with a warm smile, eye only momentarily roaming over Ser Pavus before lifting his head confidently and addressing the Seeker and Herald, quickly scheduling a debrief meeting and gently urging them to take a moment to settle back in before rushing into business.

When he turned to Caelum, however, his face tightened and slanted into something barely above a scowl and his hands folded stiffly behind his back, “Captain, I expect a full report written up by tomorrow morning.” They exchanged terse nods and parted ways without any flourish as a captain and commander should.

This is what he wanted. This is what he asked for all those weeks ago when Cullen’s return to his life was still an open, searing wound. 

**_I don’t need to feel like your brother right now though, we need to just be comrades. You’re the commander, I’m the captain._ **

It is the exact request that he voiced when the fear of spiralling back into the substandard little brother role pressed painfully against his chance at happiness. He’d begged for it. He pushed for it. He never knew that a victory could feel so hollow.

Now he stands here watching the recruits and letting the day fade away, unsure of himself and procrastinating with his report. 

Gaining some support from Seeker Pentaghast for his concerns with the bandits gave him a pleasant shot of confidence but now it begins to fizzle as he dreads the uncertain likelihood of being dismissed by Cullen and the argument that will inevitably ensue.

Despite the tension that sits between them, Caelum can’t deny that Cullen is a good commander, he trusts him with his life. Cullen wouldn’t dismiss his concerns out of some arrogant bout of spite. Then again, he can’t be sure that Cullen really sees him as more than the little pest he left at home. No, surely by now he’s gained some respect...

He’s pulled from his ricocheting thoughts by a flash of movement to his left that tugs his gaze away from his worn out recruits. 

A cat sits low near a bush, belly on the ground and long, cream-colored fur thick and fluffed, blending in well with the thin coating of snow. It shifts on its front paws, steadying itself, before suddenly charging and leaping at a post, narrowly missing the crow that springs from its perch and flies out of reach. The bird can’t be bothered to flee too far as it just settles on the next post and hops back around to stare at the cat with a look that appears more smug than any bird should be able to pull off. The feline sits back on its haunches, looking entirely fed up, and turns its ears, then its eyes toward Caelum. 

It turns only one eye toward him, Caelum notices once its face is fully in view. Its right eye is missing, only the left, a dark, fiery orange, stares up at him. Taking pity on the creature, Caelum tosses his remaining jerky toward it and, deciding that he’s held it off long enough, ambles off to get his report over with.

 

✦

 

_ … the militia has agreed to our proposal and they show promise of being a valuable asset to the Inquisition. They have strong numbers, I was unable to record an exact count but I estimate about 30 troops. However, they require training and supplies. I believe it to be imperative that they receive these as soon as possible. The region is rife with crime and outlaws and the militia is the people's last line of defense. I would suggest that we also assist them in dealing with the bandit issues, as it appears to be worse than it has ever been… _

A strange scratching at the door of his cabin halts his writing. He waits, hand hovering over the parchment, expecting it to be a runner arriving to deliver a report or something or another. No knock against the door sounds through the room, however, and he returns to his report, reaching to dip his pen in ink when the sounds repeats.

Hairs standing on end now as his instincts light up, he silently pushes out of his chair, replacing the pen with a stiletto, and moves towards the door with carefully measured steps. The blade is poised to strike as he inches the door open, peering through the gap with one eye. His partial vision lands on nothing, he pulls the door open wider and sticks a head out to sweep the area. Beyond the door is nothing but open, night air and frigid wind. Scowling at the empty courtyard, he opens the door nearly all the way, clutching the dagger and leaning out.

He finds no one. Everything is still. Griping about kids and their cherry knocking games and shivering from the biting cold, he steps back and shuts the door against the gust that blows right through his bones and rushes into his room.

He rounds back to his desk only to stop short, widen his stance and bring his stiletto up in a defensive position. The one-eyed cat is unbothered, laying unceremoniously across his pillow, it’s tail thumping against the bed. 

Caelum drops his arm with a huff, staring at the cat, and rubs a hand across his eyes, trying to brush away the exhaustion that’s quickly piling up on him and wondering what the Maker will throw at him next. 

“Look, cat, I'm sorry if you thought the jerky was an offer of friendship, but I really just felt sorry for you so… I wish you luck but off you go.”

The cat just blinks its lone eye lazily at him and stretches out its paws, extending claws to knead into his pillow before curling deeper into the cushion and going to sleep.

Sighing more deeply than the situation probably demands, he waves a dismissive hand toward the animal and walks around the bed back to his desk, throwing the stiletto on the tabletop without much of a care. “Fine. Just this once. You're lucky I'm so kind.”

He’s barely sealed his report when he's again interrupted by a sound at the door, a true knock this time, although it still doesn’t amount to much since, before he can even get out of his chair, the door is pushed open and Isaac stumbles in with a hand clasped over his eyes. 

“Cal? Are you decent? You're not giving in to sinful lust are you?”

Caelum drops his head in his hands, his exhaustion doubled and begging for surrender. “What do you want?”

“I just—when did you get a kitty?”

“He’s not mine. He showed up uninvited just like you. What do you want?”

Isaac throws himself on the bed and scoops the cat into his lap, wilfully ignoring the animal digging its claws into the sheets and kicking at him with its hind legs. It soon settles as the soldier runs a hand through it’s fur in long strokes, eyes closing in contentment and body melting in the man’s hold. “Get up and fix your hair, we’re going to the Maiden for a drink.”

“No.”

Isaac’s animated face morphs into a caricature of exasperation as he groans and slouches on the bed. It never fails to amaze Caelum how his friend can be bursting with energy from sun up to sun down and beyond.

“Don't be a roach, Cally. It's time to go out and make this village swoon. Show them that you can be friendly.”

“I  _ have  _ been friendly. Name one person that I haven't been friendly towards—besides the obvious one.”

Isaac raises an eyebrow before leveling Caelum with a stare dripping of incredulity. “Uhm, I have a harder time trying to think of anyone that you  _ have _ been friendly towards. Okay sure, I'll concede that you haven't tried to rip anyone’s head off. I'll give you that one and I salute you for it, honestly, proud papa here—”

“Don’t call yourself my  _ papa—” _

“But that's not being  _ friendly _ , Cal. That's just being… tolerant.” He looks down at the dozing cat in his lap, pausing his petting and prompting the animal to squint up at him in a perfect depiction of annoyance. ”What do you think, Lefty?”

“Don't name him—”

“Even Lefty agrees with me and he's a  _ cat— _ one of nature's original shitheads.”

Caelum doesn’t respond, putting an elbow on the desk and resting his cheek against his fist, he can only think about how badly he wants to crawl into bed and shut his eyes against this day.

Isaac drops his gaze, continues his petting down the length of the cat and looks up at Caelum with bright, chocolate eyes shining with a sincerity that sends the captain’s resolve tumbling and shattering to pieces at his feet. “Come on, Cal. I can't remember that last time we've just sat down together. I've missed you.”

Caelum waits for three full heartbeats before shaking his head against the spreading fatigue and standing from his chair. “I'm not staying all night and I'm not having more than three drinks.”

Giving a loud clap that has the cat scrambling out of his lap and under the bed, Isaac bounces to his feet and smack his hands against Caelum’s shoulders, first in excitement then in admonishment as the blonde starts to move around him toward the door. 

“That’s my Cal-bell. Hold on, what are you doing? I wasn't joking about fixing your hair. Run a comb through those curls! You can't go out looking like a ragamuffin, you're supposed to be making Haven swoon, remember?”

The lieutenant's smile is so wide that the captain can’t find it in himself to by annoyed with him. He’s long since discovered that it’s near impossible to stay mad at Isaac when he carries such an infectious happiness.

 

✦

 

Caelum hopes that Isaac can sense every single shred of resentful energy and ill will that he’s sending his way as he glares across the table at him from his seat between the Tevinter mage and the tavern wall. 

He had expected—perhaps absurdly, now that he thinks about it—a straightforward, uncomplicated drink or two with his best friend. Then everything spun out of control faster than he could keep up with.

First the Herald and Ser Pavus arrived, followed by Tethras soon after. A headache started to migrate over his temples as soon as their first round of laughter crossed the small room and raucously interrupted their peace. Not long after, the other patrons began to clear out as the night stretched on. Caelum gave his thanks to the small grain of peace that was returned to him as he watched Tethras get up from his table and leave as well.

Then somehow, in a short chain of events that are still beyond his comprehension, he and Isaac and the Herald and her Vint drifted to the same table. Not long after, Tethras returned with Cullen in tow and thus, the younger Rutherford wound up here for the last hour, kicking Isaac under the table and pressing himself as close to the wall as he can manage. 

He and Cullen both stay quiet, listening and nodding along to the conversations where appropriate, making an effort to let the evening roll forward without the tension between them being thrown down on the table to spoil everyone’s good spirits. 

For the first time in his life, Caelum wishes he had some kind of magic that will allow him to phase through the stone and slink back to his cabin.

“...I’ve known a few apostates but I’ve never really fought by any mage before. I ain’t complaining though, I’ll tell you that right now. I’m definitely glad that the shit you pull out of that staff is thrown at them and not me, Dorian. I don’t even know what’s coming out of that thing half the time.”

He’s lost track of exactly how many drinks the Herald has had already, but he knows that she’s about three drinks past tipsy. She’s leaning heavily on the table, nearly resting her head on Ser Pavus’ shoulder as she talks with a mouth that sounds like it’s slowly filling with rocks. 

Pavus swallows his drink back, resting an elbow on the table for the Herald to grip for support. “I know it must be a lot to get used to. I continue to impress  _ myself _ everyday so I can only imagine how overwhelming it is for you to suddenly witness a mage of my caliber.”

Tethras commandeers the conversation before Pavus can continue to gush over himself and for once, Caelum is glad for it. He’d crawl under the table if he had to to escape listening to the mage monologue about his own greatness.

“Where did you learn to fight, Nyla? I didn’t think farm life came with that kind of combat training.”

“My pa and my uncle. Got me on sword training when I was still a muddy little shit. I couldn’t hardly hold onto a ladle, nevermind a sword, but they worked it out and I learned to swing a pair of daggers pretty damn good.”

“What did your dad and uncle do? They in the army?”

Snorting at that, Nyla giggles and loudly smacks a hand against the table. “Not hardly! They kept away from that lot, else they’d still be rotting in a dungeon to this day.”

“They were mercenaries?”

“...no. They were more like… merchants, just the more aggressive type.”

Ice descends inside of Caelum’s chest as the implication of her words hits him, provoking a frigid burst of rage that chills his blood. “They were bandits.”

The Herald glowers at him and careens headlong into the blizzard. “Don’t make that face. You don’t know a lick about those you call  _ bandits _ . You only know what you can see out in front of you.”

“What's in front of me is all I need to know. They’re a plague.”

“They’re human—”

“They’re criminals!”

Nyla huffs in frustration, scowling nastily at the captain, fist clenching tight around her mug as the mead sloshes in her grip. A red flush spreads across her chest, creeping up her neck and leaving blotchy stains on her cheeks, spoiling the formidable air she’s putting on. 

“Yeah. Alright, yeah, they’re criminals. I ain’t fool enough to try to deny that, but they’re not bad men. They’re not bloody monsters jumping out at every poor bastard that crosses them. They’ve only done what's necessary to survive. That’s it. Nothing more.

Caelum’s expression darkens wrathfully, lips twisting into a snarl, flashing teeth and contorting his face into a malicious sneer. “Nothing more? So they’re part one of those mythical  _ good  _ bandit gangs, are they?  _ Honest  _ and  _ virtuous _ marauders who liberate people of their possessions  _ peacefully _ ? Their victims—husbands and fathers—aren’t flogged and left to die in a ditch? Once they’ve stuffed their coats, they don’t spread terrified wives and young daughters out on the dirt for more  _ taking _ ? Does he—”

“Enough!”

As one collective mass, like a herd catching the scent of danger in a breeze, all heads whip to the end of the table where Cullen had, until then, been watching silently. He’s sitting up rigidly in his seat now, eyes boring directly into Caelum’s with a searing anger that can be felt by everyone in the room. 

No one moves. Tongues are bitten and chests are still with held breath as they wait anxiously for one of the brothers to make a move, to see if they need to flee in a stampede of pounding feet and hearts.

Caelum defiantly holds his gaze, facing Cullen’s ire head on and letting his own temper reflect it back tenfold.

The commander’s glare deepens at the challenge. 

“Leave. Now.”

“I'm not—”

Caelum’s words wither on his tongue in an instant, his instincts swiftly changing their mind from fight to flight as Cullen suddenly pushes away from the table and rises to his full height, standing tall and imposing even in the absence of his armor.

“Leave. Now. It is not a request, so I will not say it again,  _ Captain. _ ”

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. The authority in his voice is effortless, lending power to each word and making them as threatening as any weapon. 

Caelum, sick with anger and humiliation, obeys. Shoving himself away from the table, chair legs scraping stridently against the stone floor, he crosses the room in six long strides and wrenches the door open, letting it slam behind him as he stalks out into the pitiless night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading and/or commenting! :)


	7. The Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I can't believe it's been so long! Please allow me to apologize for the long wait. I ended up going on a hiatus that I wasn't fully expecting and I'm so sorry for not giving a heads up. I'm back now and updates will be coming regularly again, so thank you to everyone that's still here and sticking with me. And thank you to everyone that leaves kudos and comments! I appreciate you so much :)

The silence that enters the room after Caelum's departure, slinking in as the door slams and the echo fades, is thick and prickling. It settles over the tavern, pressing and prodding at everyone until they're all shifting in their seats and fidgeting with their hands.

The silence makes the argument that produced it that much louder. The Herald's revelation and the captain's diatribe echo in their ears and no one quite knows how to respond to it yet.

Everyone stares at each other. They watch and listen. They hold a breath and wait for the storm to pass. Unwilling to step out and risk being greeted with another clap of thunder and a hair-grazing flash of lightning striking the ground before them, they wait for someone else to make the move.

Isaac presses his feet flat against the floor and bites at the inside of his cheek to quell the urge to jump up and follow the retreating captain. He knows he needs to wait, he knows that the man needs to be alone with his inner beasts, to let them rage and tire before they'll tolerate another presence. Going after Caelum now would be like trying to tame a drake bare-handed. So he waits. He lets the minutes tick by and ignores the grip of concern that insists on hoisting him out of his chair and throwing him out the door.

"What an arrogant, sodding bastard!"

Their Herald is the first to shake free, cutting through the tightness of the room with her usual brand of defiance. "He walks around all puffed up like he has any right to judge everyone when all he is is a bloody prick with a half-decent title."

Her words swipe at the silence around them, shattering it like fine glass and all at once the rest of the table shakes loose, though still careful of the shards around them. Her mage friend relaxes his shoulders, subtly straightening his back and sitting taller, as if he'd been seated like that the entire evening. But he sits a little too straight, the casual comfort with the Herald that was on display earlier is quietly absent.

"Herald, enough. Please." The strength in the Commander's voice holds steady, even as his body leans forward against the table. She doesn't notice — maybe doesn't care — and huffs through his objection, face growing redder with each word as breath is sacrificed for a rush of angry words.

"No, not  _enough_ —and I told you too many times already, my name is Nyla.  _Nyla_. I don't know why I have to keep sayin' it—I'm sick of it and I'm sick of that bastard lookin' down his nose at everyone like he's the new Most Holy or somethin'."

Isaac's teeth release the raw chunk of cheek he'd been gnawing at and clamp shut. He's always been the calm one, the one to keep a cool head and mollify his volatile friend. But when said friend isn't there to defend himself Isaac's temper is more than willing to fill in on his behalf. As Nyla rants about Caelum's bastard ways he's nearly ready to be the next one Cullen has to throw out.

To his surprise, Cullen faces Nyla with a glare so searing it makes the glare he'd given his brother seem like a nice, Spring breeze in comparison.

"Enough,  _Nyla._  That is enough. You are not innocent in this either, but now is not the time to discuss it, nor the place. This will not be discussed by any of you with  _anyone_  beyond these walls. Am I understood?"

Instead of answering, the Herald exhales hotly through her nose, finally releasing the breath blocked by her rage, curbing the remaining barrage of insults and curses that want to spill along with it. Without another word, she tosses back the last of her drink before slamming her glass down and shoving away from the table. Dorian moves with her, sliding his own chair beside hers and standing with a level of poise that seems so performed and unnecessary that Isaac has to physically hold back the scoff that threatens to escape his mouth.

The three men still seated watch them leave. Varric twists back around in his chair, picks up his mug and gets comfortable again, earning himself a look of his own from the Commander. The intensity isn't there but the message is clear enough as the dwarf gets to his feet with a smirk. He stands at the edge of the table, drinking leisurely before his arm raises in a mock surrender that shifts into a shrug as Cullen deepens his frown.

"Don't look at me like that, Curly. You don't have to worry. I'm a pillar of discretion."

With those parting words and a pensive look from Cullen that keeps Isaac in his seat, the two former Templars are left at the table.

When the door silences the last of the receding footsteps the Commander braces his elbows on the table and slouches forward, scrubbing his hands over his face. Isaac looks around the room, at the empty chairs, the melting candles, the slow dancing flames: everything around and away from the commander across from him. His eyes sweep the entire area twice and Cullen still doesn't speak.

His thumb begins tapping against his empty mug as the minutes stretch on, then he's drumming his fingers along the edge, softly clearing his throat and bouncing his knee but the waiting continues.

The silence thins out with the group, the rough thickness that chafes the air seeps out and leaves the room in a state of tired stillness that reminds Isaac of those first nervous nights in the barracks packed with other young Templar recruits, drained and nervous with so much to say and so much to ask but not yet sure of who wants to listen.

Finally, after what Isaac estimates to be several lifetimes, Cullen's hand drops from his face and hits the table with a thump. He looks at Isaac with a slight tilt of his head, as if he's resisting the urge to lay it down and sleep right there, and in that instant he looks so similar to Caelum that Isaac's discomfort is forgotten and his heart can't help but lurch with the need to throw an arm around his shoulders and help him stand against whatever weight is bearing down on him.

"Lieutenant… what am I doing wrong?" Cullen speaks at a normal volume but the words are so somber they feel like a whisper. "I have been blind to much in my life. I have my regrets... but the hatred from my brother is one that I could have never prepared for."

A quiet, humorless chuckle escapes Isaac. As fierce as Caelum's temper is, hatred is not something that comes to him easily; the few people that have earned his hatred are dead. Isaac gets comfortable in his chair and reaches over to claim his friend's abandoned drink before setting a fixed stare on the Commander.

"He doesn't hate you. I know what hatred looks like on Caelum and I can assure you, he does  _not_  hate you. He's just angry and… uncertain, I guess you could say."

"Uncertain of what?"

Cullen looks up at him sharply, his face more open than Isaac has ever seen—than he ever thought he  _would_  see, if he's being honest—and there is so much hope and longing held in those eyes, in spite of everything, like flies stuck in honey. Isaac sighs and sips at the remainder of his drink, settling in for a long and undoubtedly draining conversation.

"Okay… you asked me what you're doing wrong. Here it is. There's no balance between you two. You're either so strictly captain and commander that it doesn't even seem like you two know each other's first names,  _or_ … you treat each other like brothers—and I mean the brothers that you remember being, y'know… kid brothers. You talk down to him and he rebels against it and soon the whole captain and commander thing is thrown away completely and you two are bickering like boys."

Isaac leans back in his chair and slumps against the rest. His ankle crosses over his knee and he runs a hand over his face and through his hair, suddenly exhausted. Caelum always comments on his limitless energy, but this day has been too much even for him. It's been one thing after another and the pressure is beginning to build behind his eyes. It feels long ago now, but it was only just this morning that they marched back, on foot, all the way from the Hinterlands. He thinks he's entitled to a nap or four.

It doesn't appear that Cullen agrees. He's still leaning over the table, using it to keep himself upright and looking like he could sleep circles around Isaac, but his gaze is keen and alert, keeping the brunette pinned to his seat until the solution to his plight is laid on the table between the empty mugs, harsh words, and fractured bonds.

With a sigh and a heavy blink that does nothing to knock back the fatigue, Isaac tries again.

"Cal takes his position seriously, okay? That's obvious. And sometimes you say things that are such  _big brother_  things... in his eyes it seems like you're… I don't know, treating him like he's still a child or not giving him the respect that you'd give any other captain. Y'know? It's like there's two versions of him and you treat him differently based on which version you want. You're  _all_  business sometimes but when you're trying to get closer you become all…  _little, baby brother_  with him. He'd be open to having some warmth between you two, but he wants the respect to be there too. You see?"

A moment of silence passes between them. Isaac's words hang in the air. They seem so simple, so easy to put into action, but nothing about Caelum has ever been easy. While the answer appears uncomplicated, they both know that woven between those lines are snares, pits, and trips laid by the man's temper and insecurities.

"Is that what he told you?" Cullen's voice is weary, cautious like he doesn't want to know the answer but needs to anyway. Isaac shrugs and almost leaves it there, but the blonde's crestfallen expression drags the words out of him with little resistance.

"No. He usually doesn't have to tell me anything; I know him. He's worked hard to become the man he is today — too hard sometimes — he puts everything into this, he's proud of it and he's damn good at it. He can be your brother  _and_  a captain, a soldier, a leader..."

"I  _do_ see him that way. I never—it was never my intent to belittle him. He was so young when I left—we both were. I admit that it is still a struggle sometimes… It has been difficult to accept that the Caelum from my memories is now a man that I hardly know… more difficult than I imagined."

Isaac isn't sure if its indignation or desperation that colors Cullen's declaration. Maybe it's a little of both, but he doesn't bother trying to figure it out. Night is moving forward, Haven slumbers on, and a man that is more his brother than blood could ever tell is facing the monsters of his mind alone; he has no more time for the elder Rutherford.

"You're both adults, you can figure it out. Just go easy with it. I know I don't need to tell you this, but that brother of yours, man he's got a nasty temper on him, I know he's not the easiest person to connect with. Just take it slow. But, speaking of that temper, I better head off before he does something rash; best friend responsibilities and all that."

Isaac drags himself out of his seat and to his feet, making a show of dramatically stretching out his back and groaning in satisfaction when it pops.

"It's been a pleasure, kinda… well, not my worst night, at least. Rest well, Commander. I'll see you in the morning."

Cullen nods listlessly, eyes still fixed on Isaac's now empty chair, deep in thought, and the lieutenant nearly claps a hand on his shoulder, something that would be so natural for him with Caelum. He stops himself as soon as the impulse hits and instead brings his hand down to knock lightly against the table until Cullen's attention is pulled back to him.

"... and… I'll talk to him. Let me see if I can thaw him out a little for you."

The smile he gets in return keeps him warm as he steps out the door and into the night air to follow the frigid draft that'll surely lead him to his best friend.

 

✦✦

 

Isaac kicks at the door frame to Caelum's cabin with the side of his boot and stomps and swipes them across the stone walkway, knocking the snow free and making just the right amount of noise. He waits before knocking, holding his breath and leaning into the door to listen.

It's silent inside. He exhales, grimaces, and raps his knuckles against the wood three times before grabbing the handle, pushing the door open, and slipping in, blocking the cold with his body as much as he's able.

"Cally. How you doin' in here, mate?"

He receives no answer but his eyes easily find Caelum's golden hair highlighted in the darkness by the dying firelight. The blonde sits on the floor facing the far wall, back braced against the bed, the room, and the world beyond it.

Isaac presses the door shut behind him but a chill slips by and settles in his chest when he sees the wood marred with cracks and red smears of blood. He holds back a sigh, lets it sit heavy in his throat as he approaches his friend with steps laboriously light and carrying their usual bounce.

"Hey, you didn't finish your drink. I paid for that, you ungrateful bastard." He layers an expertly molded laugh over his voice and rounds the bed, finally getting a good look at his wayward friend. The state of his hair would be a great source of amusement and ribbing in any other situation, with the curls fully fluffed and reaching out in all directions, almost like they tried to escape the path of his riotous hands, but the blood across his knuckles stops the humor in its tracks and the emptiness of his eyes freezes it solid.

Isaac lowers himself onto the floor and folds his arms across his knees, letting his shoulder brush against the other man's.

"Come on, Cal. You know I'll stay here all night."

"I'm leaving."

"You're wha—"

"He sent me away!" Caelum's passion tears through him like a gale through a swinging door, anyone too close risks being smacked in the face, but Isaac has long since learned where to stand. Within the green of his eyes, Isaac can see the flurry of anger and frustration, and the slightest flecks of fear and disappointment.

"He sided with her. Silenced  _me_  for speaking against her bandits—I didn't come here to work with  _bandits_ , Isaac! I didn't—I didn't lead our men here for that. I didn't accept the damn position for that. I thought we'd be helping people."

"Okay, wait, just wait. We are  _not_ working with bandits. I don't know what Trevelyan was planning with that, or if she was planning anything at all, or what's going to happen now…I don't know, but we aren't here to do anything but defend and protect people and that's exactly what we  _have_ been doing."

Isaac doesn't react as Caelum springs to his feet, falling into a pattern of pacing and stopping every few moments when a word is snarled from a particularly deep part of his gut. The captain is a man of action, he's always dealt with his problems with swinging fists and swords and the welcomed distraction of pain. Now, the muscles in his arm twitch and quiver with the desire to lash out, knuckles clenched tight, white, and bloodless beneath the red that already coats the torn skin.

"Innocent people! We're supposed to be protecting  _innocent_  people, Zac, but who has the Inquisition really been protecting? You heard them—the Seeker and that damn, bloody dwarf—they didn't see any bandits in the Hinterlands, they didn't see bodies, they didn't see the wreckage. Maker, she's been coordinating with them this entire time, keeping us out of their way… that's why she led us to a different path in the Hinterlands. All she has to do is say her mark feels a tingle this way or that way and we all follow like submissive dogs."

Isaac stretches his legs out in front of him, cutting off the path of Caelum's pacing and holds his hands out even though he knows the gesture calms his friend about as much as a cup a water calms a burning bush.

"This… yeah, alright. This is a fucked up turn of events, I know, but now Cullen knows and he'll tell the others and I'm sure they're gonna do whatever they need to do to unfuck it. We have to trust them."

Caelum halts and faces Isaac full on. A phantom shiver slinks down the lieutenant's spine, his body wanting to react to the icy shards being pointed at him despite his mind knowing that he's not at risk of being pierced.

"Cullen took her side."

"That wasn—"

"You were there! He ordered me out! I was right, you  _know_ I was right, Isaac. You saw the bodies, you heard the militia, you saw the pain in those refugees; a great deal of their suffering was caused by bandits and I'm supposed to look the other way? Cullen stands beside the  _sacred_  Herald—follows her even if it's alongside her murdering, rapist brethren."

The room falls into silence. Caelum turns away, bracing his hands on his dresser while Isaac stares at his back, a dozen comforts climbing up his throat only to die on his tongue. Caelum speaks with his head bowed, the words muffled as they reach Isaac only after bouncing off the desk and tumbling across the floor.

"It takes me back. It's always been like this. It's always been so easy for him to shoo me away. Anytime I tried to have a voice of my own he'd just dismiss me, stand up and put his boot in my face and make me look like a fool. I knew it wouldn't be different, I knew it as soon as the Seeker spoke his name."

Before Isaac has a chance to figure out what to say to that, the dresser is pulled open and clothes are being snatched out and tossed onto the bed, nearly piling onto Isaac as he rushes to his feet and over to stand beside Caelum and look him in the face.

"What are you doing?"

"I told you. I'm leaving."

"You can't just leave, Cally. Where would we go?"

"The Hinterlands. Redcliff. We can join up with the militia. I can teach them proper combat. We can help them wipe the bandits out."

"We can't join the militia—would you stop!"

Isaac grabs hold of his elbow and gives it a sharp tug, pulling him away from his mindless packing and forcing him to meet his stare. Isaac looks him straight in the eye, making sure every word is cutting straight through Caelum.

"We  _are not_  joining the militia. They're pledged to the Inquisition anyways, you're the one that won them over  _for the Inquisition_ , remember? And what would you tell our soldiers? They look up to you, y'know? You can't just up and leave and join a new troop. People will talk, they'll start digging, they'll find out things they shouldn't know."

"And why shouldn't they know?"

"C'mon, man," Isaac runs a hand through his hair, letting it smack loudly against his thigh in exasperation, "you know how this will look. You know people can't find out about this. The Inquisition will be ruined."

"So, we'll just keep aiding a corrupt Herald? Masking the truth, letting people rally around her and throw themselves into her service, all while the bandits that are robbing and raping and killing them are the ones that are benefiting from it;  _they're_  the ones this Inquisition is serving, not the people."

"You know that isn't the whole story—"

"It's enough of it—"

"People need that faith—"

"And that makes it worth it?"

They're standing nearly nose to nose, voices raised and cutting, trying to dominate the other. Caelum backs away first, putting space between them; not in submission, Isaac knows, but in restraint. The brunette welcomes the relief, accepting the lungful of air that seems to return as the room takes shape again around him.

The relief is hollow though, the look of betrayal in Caelum's eyes steals the breath straight out of his lungs and sours the air around him.

"Keeping criminals working beneath us is worth it as long as it maintains our image and keeps the victims ignorant? Well, I won't be a part of it. I'll go to Honnleath. You and Cullen and the Herald can all sit around together waving smoke into people's eyes, have at it and see how far you get. I'm not staying for it. I don't need anyone. I've always been better on my own and that isn't going to change today."

Caelum turns back to his dresser, pulling out clothes methodically and giving Isaac a cold shoulder that makes his teeth chatter. The frost around the man bites at Isaac's composure, and his immunity only goes so far: soon his warm, chocolate eyes are hardening and freezing over.

" _You've always been better on your own…_  I can't believe you have the balls to say that to me. I've stood beside you through  _everything_ , Caelum. There's never been a single time that I didn't have your back, but now when I say something you don't like you're ready to screw off and flick me away like I'm just some random clod? Okay, fine then. Don't let me keep you. You go right ahead and runoff, join the militia, go to Honnleath, join a damn singing caravan if you want. If it's that easy for you to turn your back to me then go ahead, allow me to get out of your way."

The six or so steps to cross the room feel like acres, the wood floors like loose, sinking sand beneath his boots, the doorknob attached to a sack of bricks that connects straight to his heart. He's never turned away from Caelum before, his entire being rebels against it, but he keeps his fingers wrapped around the knob, twists it a fraction at a time and prays that his friend doesn't let him pull it open and walk out the door.

"W—wait, Isaac, wait… I'm sorry… I'm sorry."

The string is cut, the weight drops and Isaac's heart lifts and pure solace spreads out in his chest. He turns around to see Caelum fold onto the floor and puts his head in his hands, fingers lacing into blonde curls and it's such a stark mirror image of his time with Cullen that his mind momentarily stumbles over it, thinking it could almost be a trick of the fade.

Unlike his experience with Cullen though, this image slices through him entirely. Caelum's pain reaches out to him, and this is the anger that tears Isaac up, the tormenting anger that roots itself so deeply inside of Caelum and shoots through him so intensely that he's left burned and blistered long before anyone else can even feel its heat.

Isaac sits next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and they start again.

"You drive me mad, y'know? You really make me want to strangle you sometimes."

"I know. I'm sorry. You know I… I wouldn't know where to go without you, I couldn't imagine it… I'm sorry."

"I know. Of course, you couldn't. Something would piss you off within the first ten minutes, probably a bird or something petty like that, you'd be stomping around, probably scare a bunch of children, their father would confront you and you'd end up arrested and in a dungeon somewhere and I'd be the one that has to show up and plead for your freedom. Don't put that kind of pressure on me, Cally."

Caelum doesn't laugh, Isaac doesn't expect him to, but tension breaks and the blonde loosens enough to let his shoulders drop and Isaac rest an elbow over it and lean into him, speaking the words over his shoulder with the hope that they fall into Caelum's heart.

"I need you  _here_. I don't know if I'd be able to hang onto my faith or my sanity in this place if you weren't here."

"I don't even know what I'm doing here anymore, Zac. I thought I was doing something good. I  _felt_  good, proud, but now… I don't know… I feel dirty. I feel shameful. If… if this is what it seems then I can't stay. And the way Cullen tossed me when I spoke out, I just… I don't know. I thought I could trust him…"

The shake in his voice rattles straight through Isaac. Part of him wishes to stand Caelum up and help him pack, strap on their armor and whisk him away from this place, away from Cullen and fears and insecurities, to a place where Caelum can be free from the everything that comes along and shoves him down. But there is no place where those things don't exist, Caelum carries them with him, so Isaac stands beside him and holds him up when he's collapsing beneath the weight of it all.

"Well… we'll just have to wait and see then. I'm as ignorant as you are right now. I don't know if there's more going on or if there's been some major bandit conspiracy happening right under our noses, but I do know that Cullen had his reasons for stepping in tonight and I know they didn't have anything to do with protecting the damn bandits. He sent her away, too, right after you left, he sent us all away, actually, but with Nyla… he looked ready to snap her neck."

Caelum doesn't say anything to that, but Isaac seeing the final flakes of ice melt behind his eyes.

"So let's hear him out. If they can't give an explanation or an acceptable solution then they can all watch our toned asses walk right out those gates. We'll go to Honnleath and see your family and we can even make our way to Starkhaven and you can meet  _my_  family and we can fish out of the Minanter River and eat some of the best food in the world."

The doubts are still there. Caelum still has a thousand yard stare that's boring into the wall and seeing things that Isaac knows will keep him awake tonight, but he nods, the motion slowly dragging his gaze back to the present, and he looks back at his friend with eyes rimmed red from emotion and exhaustion.

"Yeah. Alright, I'll hear them out. But I mean it, Isaac, if they even begin to lean the wrong way, I'm walking."

"Fair enough. Save the worrying for tomorrow though, alright? Try to get some sleep. Do you want me to stay with you? Rub your head and keep the bad thoughts away?"

With that, the green in his eyes finally glimmers in a way that Isaac is satisfied with, even as he rolls them and shoves an elbow into his ribs.

"Get out, Isaac."

 

✦✦

 

The new day that Haven wakes to is much the same as the one before it and the one before that. Children rise with the sun, bursting from their cabins with energy reinvigorated and packed too tightly in their slight frames, merchants uncrate their wares, dogs roam the town with their noses to the ground, the young pups zig-zagging between the crows, cats, and galavanting kids while the old hounds find a place by the morning fires among the other adults. There's chatter and laughter among the yawns and half-hearted scolds and whines.

They feel safe there, formed friendships and families there, built a community to grieve with and heal with there. Caelum watches them as he moves through town, chantry bound. Despite the trauma in their eyes and the torn Veil of green hovering over their shoulders, the people smile at each other, gossip and flirt, and spoon breakfast pottage with steady hands.

Last night, the truth and the consequences, none of it matters to them because it doesn't exist to them. The anxiety that rocked Caelum out of bed, penned a quavery, rambling letter to Mia, and has him marching across Haven with a galloping heart and cold sweat on his skin is completely unknown to them.

_They need that faith._

He remembers Isaac's words. As he looks around he understands them. Because hasn't that been his own philosophy? Isn't that the relationship between the sheep and the sheepdog? It is in his mind, or it was. The sheep — fragile in mind, body, and spirit, he'd once thought — need to be protected. They need their bubbles of safety, security, and comfort. It's how they survive. The sheepdog keeps the wolves away, but it doesn't go back and tell the sheep how close they came.

But what if the wolves sit among the dogs? With the gates left open and the freedom to come and go as they please?

 _Andraste, guide me. Please._ Caelum prays and shivers, tucking his chin deep into his collar and shifting his shoulders, trying to free the cotton that clings to his sweaty back.

He's just barely put his foot on the first step to ascend the short stairs to the chantry courtyard when his name is called out behind him. He turns to see Scout Jim, Cullen's faithful messenger, approaching him with his usual hurried stride.

"Captain! Captain Caelum, ser, Commander Cullen requests your presence at his cabin. At your earliest convenience, he said."

Caelum only nods at the man, looking straight through him as a fresh rush of anxiety pumps through his body, smothers his tongue and smacks his pulse into another mad dash. Jim nods back, hesitates for a moment when the captain fails to dismiss him, before giving another awkward, low nod of respect and skirting around him with a mumbled, "good day."

Turning back the way he came, Caelum makes his way to Cullen's cabin on pure muscle memory while his mind fumbles through a haze of worries and what ifs.

_Why his private cabin? It's an official reprimand for last night, it has to be. Or a non-official reprimand, he plans on giving me a dressing down like in the old days… or it's a dismissal. They don't want me causing a fuss about what they might be up to. They figured it'd be best to do it through Cullen._

Said man pulls the door open on the first knock like he'd been standing there waiting right behind it. Like Caelum, Cullen is only in his under armor, a padded gambeson with the Inquisition insignia embroidered on the chest. They make eye contact for only a second before shifting their gazes elsewhere.

"Cal—Captain. Caelum, Good morning. Come in. Please."

Cullen ushers him inside, offering him a seat before rounding the desk and sitting across from him. He doesn't address Caelum again for a long time, instead busying himself with straightening a perfectly stacked pile of papers, adjusting his neatly aligned row of quills, and swiping a hand across the top of his pristinely polished desk.

Caelum's nerves twist around each other, knotting and tightening around his chest, threatening to close in on his throat until he forces a cough into his hand, unwilling and unable to wait for Cullen to finish his imaginary tidying up. He digs his nails into his knees and steadies himself before forcing his dried tongue to lead the way out of this situation.

"I want to apologize—for last night, I mean. I understand that I spoke out of turn. I don't regret anything I said, I meant every word of it…and I still mean it, but it wasn't the right place and… perhaps not the right way. I know my temper is something that still… needs some work… so I'm sorry."

Frustration stacks onto the anxiety. He's no good at apologies. He's no good at speaking with people, in general, and he immediately wants to kick himself.  _I should have rehearsed with Isaac._

He isn't sure if it sounded enough like a proper apology and he considers trying again, even though it'll make him look like a bumbling, idiot child, but he looks up to see surprise pass freely over Cullen's eyes and he watches Cullen's mouth begin to shape several words that never make a sound, the letters forming and ready to roll out, only to be cut off by a flat press of his lips each time.

It's only been a moment, but to Caelum, already feeling like a chastised little boy, he half expects the snow outside to be melted by the time he leaves this room.

When Cullen speaks, at last, it's done quietly, cautiously, but his authority takes over and begins leading the conversation with a confidence that Caelum envies.

"...thank you. And... it's important to me that you understand that I was not disagreeing with you when I gave those orders. I could not allow a fight to break out in the middle of the tavern between our Herald and our captain. And the cause if it… Haven is not large enough to hold many secrets and the people cannot hear of such things. My decision was not personal—it was not about  _you_ , Caelum, or what you felt. It was about our positions and the way those positions demand we conduct ourselves."

Caelum nods, hands clasped tight in his lap and eyes burning with the effort to keep them on Cullen and not slide down to his feet like they want to. Even as the rest of him is bound in a stiff grip of self-control, his mouth isn't quite ready to yield, and he asks the question that's been sizzling over his mind since last night.

"Have you guys known?"

He gets an answer in the form of Cullen's brows dropping and furrowing between his eyes, and his mouth crumpling into a frown, writing his offense plainly over his face.

"Of course not. I spoke to Cassandra first thing this morning, she was not… accepting… of the news. The Herald had us  _all_ deceived, but she is the one with the Mark. We need her cooperation. We can't just lock her in a dungeon, no matter how much I may wish to."

"I understand that. I understand the need to keep her on our side but… if that means continuing to aid  _bandits_  or even ignoring them, then I can't stay. I'm sorry Cullen, I just can't. I couldn't stomach it."

Cullen nods and something light and tender sparks in his eyes.

"I know. I would never ask that of you regardless. I know much time has passed between us, but I certainly remember how strong your convictions are."

There's a subtle splotch of humor in Cullen's tone and a chained down part of Caelum bristles and snarls in response, wanting to jump up and pound his fist on the desk and shout.  _Is it mockery? Is it a man indulging a boy with a toy sword?_  Another half of him pulls him back, whispering that Cullen's amusement could just as well be rooted in fondness, rather than condescension.

"Myself and the other advisors will meet with the Herald this afternoon. I cannot yet say what will happen, but as captain, you will be one of the first to know."

Caelum only nods, feeling listless and out of depth in a way that he can't explain. He wants to get back to his routine, get to the training yard and run drills and improve forms and do what he knows he's good at—for however long he'll still be doing it. He waits to be dismissed, but Cullen clears his throat and slides a piece of parchment in front of him, that nervous energy returning.

"Cap—Caelum? There is one more thing if you have time. It is more of a personal matter…"

Caelum waits. Cullen sighs, eyes dropping for a moment before raising up to meet his brother's with an openness that could suck Caelum in if the younger man isn't careful. The fireplace crackles to his left, but when Cullen looks at him with eyes that carry a swirl a pale flames, Caelum swears that's where the warmth is coming from. It's the same stare their father had, the stare that got him through his coldest days when he was a boy and the ice in his heart threatened to shatter it to pieces.

"I need to write home. There are Inquisition matters as well, yes, the horses. But it is also just… It has been far too long. I haven't a clue how to start it, they must be so angry… and hurt. I am too ashamed to admit to how many letters I attempted to start and threw in the fire. The right words just continue to escape me, and I understand that you write to them often… I thought — was hoping that…"

The chair creaks a little, it's old, like everything in Haven, but the background noise is welcome as Caelum shifts in his seat. There's the crackle of the fire again, and the muffled sound of the mid-morning bustle of Haven, vendors shouting, dogs barking, and children laughing. The noise penetrates the walls and brings with it a familiar homesickness.

There's a tug on his lips as he imagines Rosie's squeal of excitement when she sees Cullen's familiar handwriting, he can picture the way her eyes will light up, the way Mia will wrinkle the edges of the letter up in her grip as she reads aloud, eyes rolling but shining with blissful tears, the way Bran will tower over both of them, reading along over her shoulder and keeping a steadying hand on each of their sister's backs.

Caelum swallows. It's for the family. He'll do anything for his family.

"Well… the best way to start off is admitting that you've been a tit for taking so long, save Mia the time of having to tell you herself…"

Cullen huffs, a relieved laugh trickling out, quiet and bashful.

Then they smile at each other for the first time in seventeen years.


End file.
